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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of Children of destiny, by Molly Elliot
-Seawell
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: Children of destiny
-
-Author: Molly Elliot Seawell
-
-Illustrator: A. B. Wenzell
-
-Release Date: October 21, 2022 [eBook #69193]
-
-Language: English
-
-Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed
-             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-             produced from images generously made available by
-             University of California libraries)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN OF DESTINY ***
-
-
-[Illustration: A CERTAIN QUALITY OF ATTRACTION ABOUT BLAIR WHICH MADE
-WOMEN LOVE HIM.--_Page 22_]
-
-
-
-
-  Children of Destiny
-
-  _By_ MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
-
-  [Illustration]
-
-  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
-  A. B. WENZELL
-
-  _A. L. BURT COMPANY_
-
-  _Publishers_      _New York_
-
-
-
-
-  COPYRIGHT 1893
-  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
-
-  COPYRIGHT 1903
-  THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
-
-  APRIL
-
-
-
-
-_Children of Destiny_
-
-
-
-
-CHILDREN OF DESTINY.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I.
-
-
-The hot June sunshine poured down upon the great fields of yellow wheat
-at Deerchase, and the velvet wind swept softly over them, making long
-billows and shadowy dimples in the golden sea of grain. The air was
-all blue and gold, and vibrating with the music of harvest time--the
-reedlike harmonies of the wind-swept wheat, the droning of many bees,
-the merry drumming of the cicada in the long grass, and, above all,
-the song of the black reapers, as they swung their glittering scythes
-in the morning sun. One side of the vast field was skirted by purplish
-woods, through which went constantly a solemn murmur--the only sad
-note in the symphony. On the other side rose great clumps and groves
-of live oaks and silver beeches and feathery elms, shading a spacious
-brick house with innumerable peaks and gables. Beyond this house and
-its pleasure grounds a broad and glittering river went merrily on its
-way to the south Atlantic. Nature in this coast country of Virginia
-is prodigal of beauty, and bestows all manner of charms with a lavish
-hand. Here are found blue rivers and bluer skies, and pale splendours
-of moonlit nights and exquisite dawns and fair noons. Here Nature runs
-the whole gamut of beauty--through the laughing loveliness of spring
-mornings, the capricious sweetness of summer days, when the landscape
-hides itself, like a sulky beauty, in white mists and silvery rains,
-to the cold glory of the winter nights; there is no discord nor
-anything unlovely. But in the harvest time it is most gracious and
-love-compelling. There is something ineffably gay in harvest, and the
-negroes, those children of the sun, sang as merrily and as naturally as
-the grasshoppers that chirped in the green heart of the woods.
-
-The long row of black reapers swung their scythes in rhythm, their
-voices rising and falling in cadence with the cutting of the wheat.
-The head man led the singing as he led the reapers. After them came
-a crowd of negro women, gathering up the wheat and tying it into
-bundles--it was as primitive as the harvesting in the days of Ruth and
-Boaz. It was not work, it was rather play. The song of the reapers had
-an accompaniment of shrill laughter from the women, who occasionally
-joined in the singing--
-
-  “When I was young, I useter to wait
-  Behine ole marster, han’ he plate,
-  An’ pass de bottle when he dry,
-  An’ bresh away dat blue-tail fly.”
-
-The men’s voices rolled this out sonorously and melodiously. Then came
-the chorus, in which the high sweet voices of the women soared like the
-larks and the thrushes:
-
-  “Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer,
-  Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer,
-  Jim, crack corn, I doan’ keer.
-    Ole--marster’s--gone--away!”
-
-The last line was a wail; but the first lines were full of a
-devil-may-care music, which made some of the women drop their bundles
-of wheat, and, picking up their striped cotton skirts, they danced a
-breakdown nimbly. A dozen little negro boys carried buckets of water
-about the field to refresh the thirsty harvesters, and one negro girl,
-with her arms folded and a great pail on her head of whisky and water
-with mint floating around in it, was vociferously greeted whenever she
-appeared, and a drink from the gourd in the pail invariably caused a
-fresh outburst of song.
-
-Hot and bright as the fields were, it was not too hot and bright for
-these merry labourers. But there was a stretch of coolness and of
-shade on the edge of the woods where the dew still sparkled upon the
-blackberry-bushes and the grass and undergrowth. And in a shady place
-under a hawthorn bush sat a black-eyed little boy with a dog across his
-knees. They had for company a Latin book, which the boy made a lazy
-pretence of studying, wearing all the time a sulky scowl. But when he
-found that he could put the book to a better use than studying, by
-propping the dog’s head upon it so as to bring the tawny, intelligent
-eyes upon a level with his own, the scowl cleared away. His face, then,
-though full of archness and sweetness, was not altogether happy. He
-gazed into the dog’s eyes wistfully, for, although many people gazed
-upon him kindly, no creature in the wide world ever gazed upon him so
-affectionately as this one poor brute of a dog.
-
-Presently, while lost in a sort of dream, listening to the song of the
-reapers as it melted away in the distance, and following up pretty,
-idle fancies that danced before him like white butterflies in the
-sun, he heard a crashing behind him of a burly figure making its way
-through the leaves and grass, and an ungainly man, past middle age, and
-blear-eyed and snuffy, appeared before him. In the pure, fresh morning
-light he looked coarser, more dissipated than could be imagined; but
-when his voice rang out, not even the wood bird’s note put it to
-shame--it was so clear, so rich, so sweet. That voice was the one charm
-left to him.
-
-“Well, Lewis, my lad,” he cried out, “how are you and my old friend
-Horatius Flaccus getting on this deuced fine morning? Drat the dog--you
-always have him about.”
-
-“You shouldn’t drat him, Mr. Bulstrode,” answered Lewis, “because old
-Service likes Latin better than I do. He has scarcely blinked since I
-put the book in his paw.”
-
-“Dogs do like Latin,” answered Bulstrode, with a wink; “let me show
-you, sir.”
-
-Lewis burst out laughing at the idea that dogs had any taste for the
-classics; and the dog, withdrawing his head, showed his teeth in a
-snarl.
-
-“Snarl away, my friend,” said Bulstrode jovially, seating himself, with
-awkward comfort, on the grass. “I lay I’ll make you change your tune.
-Do you know--” Bulstrode’s pronunciation was not equal to the music
-of his voice, and he said “D’ye know.” “D’ye know, boy, that the two
-great powers to charm women and dogs are the eye and the voice? Now, as
-for my eyes--Lord, I never had any charm in ’em, and the life I’ve led
-wasn’t calculated to give ’em any. But see if that damned dog doesn’t
-stop his growling when I give him some first-class Latin.”
-
-Bulstrode took the book and began to read sonorously one of the longer
-odes. Lewis, whose black eyes were wonderfully expressive, was laughing
-to himself, the more so when, as Bulstrode rolled out the lines of
-rhythmic beauty, old Service ceased his growling and appeared to be
-listening gravely. Bulstrode put out his hand and drew the dog toward
-him, and in a little while Service was resting his head on Bulstrode’s
-knee and blinking placidly and solemnly into his face.
-
-“There you have it!” cried Bulstrode, slapping the book together. “Let
-me tell you, Lewis, in the old days, when my face was fresh and fair,
-I used to walk up and down the river bank at Cambridge, reciting these
-odes to a gang of undergraduates, and sometimes there’d be a don on the
-outskirts of the crowd. Don’t know what a don is? Well, I’ll tell you
-some day. And the reason my Latin and Greek are so much better than my
-English is because I learned my English from the vulgar. But my Latin
-and Greek I learned from the very finest old Latin and Greek gentlemen
-that ever were--the cream of the company, boy; and that and my voice
-are about the only decent things left about me.”
-
-“And your philosophy,” said Lewis, hesitating--“that great book you’re
-helping Mr. Skelton on.”
-
-“Philosophy--fudge!” cried Bulstrode carelessly. “There’s Skelton now,
-shut up in that musty library yonder”--jerking his thumb toward the
-Deerchase house--“grinding away at his system of philosophy; and here
-am I, the true philosopher, enjoying this infernally glorious harvest
-and these picturesque black people, that I never can get used to, no
-matter how long I live in this odd country. D’ye know what Kant says?
-Of course you don’t; so I’ll tell you. He says that two men, like _him_
-over yonder”--Bulstrode jerked his thumb again over his shoulder--“and
-your humble servant, engaged in pursuing abstract philosophy, are like
-two idiots who want a drink of milk; so one milks a post, while the
-other holds a sieve. That’s philosophy, my dear boy.”
-
-This puzzled Lewis very much, who was nevertheless accustomed to
-hearing Bulstrode pooh-poohing philosophy, while Mr. Skelton always
-uttered the word reverently.
-
-“You see yourself,” cried Bulstrode, giving his battered hat a rakish
-cock, “Skelton is a fine example of what enormous study and research
-will bring a man to, and I’m another one. He has been studying for
-twenty years to write the greatest book that ever was written. He’s
-spent the twenty best years of his life, and he’s got fifteen thousand
-books stored away in that grand new library he has built, and he’s
-bought me, body and soul, to help him out, and the result will
-be--he’ll _never_ write the book!”
-
-Bulstrode slapped his hand down on his knee as he brought out the
-“_never_” in a ringing voice; the dog gave a single loud yelp, and
-Lewis Pryor jumped up in surprise.
-
-“You don’t mean it, Mr. Bulstrode!” he cried breathlessly, for he had
-been bred upon the expectation that a great work was being then written
-in the Deerchase library by Mr. Skelton, and when it was given to the
-world the planet would stop revolving for a time at least. Bulstrode
-had an ungovernable indiscreetness, and, the string of his tongue being
-loosed, he proceeded to discuss Skelton’s affairs with great freedom,
-and without regarding in the least the youth of his companion.
-
-“Yes, I do mean it. Skelton’s milking the post, and he’s hired me to
-hold the sieve. He’s been preparing--preparing--preparing to write that
-book; and the more he prepares, the more he won’t write it. Not that
-Skelton hasn’t great powers; you know those things he wrote at the
-university, particularly that ‘Voices of the People’? Well, Skelton’s
-got a bogie after him--the bogie of a too brilliant promise in his
-youth. He’s mortally afraid of the young fellow who wrote ‘Voices of
-the People.’ But he’ll carry out that other project of his--no doubt at
-all about _that_.”
-
-“What is it?” asked Lewis, full of curiosity, though not altogether
-comprehending what he heard.
-
-“Oh, that determination of his to ruin Jack Blair and his wife,”
-replied Bulstrode, flapping away a fly. “Mrs. Blair, you know, jilted
-the Great Panjandrum fifteen years ago, and ran away with Blair; and
-they’ll pay for it with every acre of land and stick of timber they’ve
-got in the world!”
-
-Lewis pondered a moment or two.
-
-“But I thought Mr. Skelton and the Blairs were so friendly and polite,
-and--”
-
-“O Lord, yes. Deuced friendly and polite! That’s the way with
-gentlefolks--genteel brutality--shaking hands and smiling one at
-the other, and all the time a knife up the sleeve. Don’t understand
-gentlefolks myself.”
-
-This rather shocked Lewis, who was accustomed to hearing everybody he
-knew called a gentleman, and the title insisted upon tenaciously.
-
-“Why, Mr. Bulstrode,” he said diffidently, “ain’t you a gentleman?”
-
-“Lord bless you, no!” cried Bulstrode loudly and frankly. “My father
-kept a mews, and my mother--God bless her!--I’ll say no more. But look
-you, Lewis Pryor,” said he, rising, and with a sort of rude dignity,
-“though I be not a gentleman _here_,” slapping his body, “I’m a
-gentleman _here_,” tapping his forehead. “I’m an aristocrat from my
-chops upward.”
-
-Lewis had risen too. He thought this was very queer talk, but he did
-not laugh at it, or feel contempt for Bulstrode, who had straightened
-himself up, and had actually lost something of his plebeian aspect.
-
-“And,” he added with an ill-suppressed chuckle, “I’m a gentleman when
-I’m drunk. You see, as long as I’m sober I remember the mews, and my
-father in his black weepers driving the hearse, and the delight I
-used to feel when the young sprigs of the nobility and gentry at the
-university would ask me to their wine parties to hear me spout Ovid and
-Anacreon, for _they_ knew I wasn’t a gentleman. But when I’m drunk,
-I only remember that I was a ‘double first’; that every Greek and
-Latinist in England knows Wat Bulstrode’s name; and when this precious
-philosopher Skelton was scouring the universities to find a man to
-help him out with his--ha! ha!--_great work_, he could not for love
-or money get any better man than ragged, drunken, out-at-elbows Wat
-Bulstrode. I tell you, boy, when I’m drunk I’m a king! I’m more--I’m a
-gentleman! There is something in Greek which provokes an intolerable
-thirst. You say that Latin is dry; so it is, so it is, my boy--very dry
-and musty!” and then Bulstrode, in a rich, sweet, rollicking voice, as
-delicious as his speaking voice, trolled out the fag end of a song that
-echoed and re-echoed through the green woods:
-
-  “I went to Strasburg, when I got drunk,
-  With the most learned Professor Brunck.
-  I went to Wortz, where I got more drunken,
-  With the more learned Professor Bruncken.”
-
-Bulstrode had quite forgotten the boy’s presence. Lewis gazed at him
-with wide, innocent boyish eyes. It was rather a tipsy age, and to be a
-little convivial was considered a mark of a liberal spirit, but Lewis
-was astute enough to see that this was not the sort of gentlemanly
-joviality which prevailed in the age and in the country. The song of
-the reapers was still mellowly heard in the distance; their scythe
-blades glittered in the sun, the merriment, the plenty, the beauty and
-simplicity of the scene was like Arcady; but the contrast between what
-Nature had made, and what man had made of himself, in Bulstrode, was
-appalling.
-
-Suddenly, the careless delight expressed in Bulstrode’s look and manner
-vanished, and a strange passion of despair overcame him.
-
-“But then, there is the waking up--the waking up--great God!” he
-shouted. “Then I see that I’m, after all, nothing but a worthless
-dog; that this man Skelton owns me; that I never will be anything but
-worthless and learned and drunken; that I’m no better than any other
-hanger-on, for all my Greek and Latin! However,” he added, stuffing
-his hands in his pockets and as suddenly laying aside his tragic air,
-“there never was such a hanger-on. Upon my soul, it’s a question
-whether Richard Skelton owns Wat Bulstrode, or Wat Bulstrode and the
-books own Richard Skelton. But look’ee here, boy, I had almost forgot
-you, and the dog too. I don’t envy Richard Skelton. No man pursues his
-enemy with gaiety of heart. He has spent more money in ruining Jack
-Blair than would have made ten good men prosperous; and, after all,
-it’s that passion of Blair’s for horse racing that will ruin him in the
-end. Gad! I don’t know that I’m any worse than Skelton, or any other
-man I know.--Why, hello! what the devil--”
-
-This last was involuntarily brought out by Skelton himself, who at that
-moment stood before him. Lewis had seen Skelton coming, and had vainly
-tugged at Bulstrode’s coat-tails without any effect.
-
-Whether Skelton’s philosophy commanded respect or not, his personality
-certainly did. He was about medium height, lean, dark, and well made.
-Also, whether he was handsome or not the world had not yet decided
-during all his forty years of life; but certain it was few men could
-look handsome beside him. His eyes, though, were singularly black and
-beautiful, like those of the boy standing by him. He was in riding
-dress, and held a little whip in his hand; he had ridden out to the
-harvest field, and then dismounted and left his horse while he walked
-through the stubble and clover. He had overheard much that Bulstrode
-had last said, and, in spite of his invincible composure, his face
-showed a silent rage and displeasure. Bulstrode and Lewis knew it by
-the sultry gleam of his black eyes. Bulstrode instantly lost his air of
-independence, and all of his efforts to retain it only resulted in a
-half-cowed swagger.
-
-“Bulstrode,” said Skelton in a cool voice, “how often have I
-recommended you not to discuss me or my affairs?”
-
-“Don’t know, I’m sure,” blustered Bulstrode, his hands still in his
-pockets. Both of them had realised the boy’s presence. As Bulstrode
-really loved him, he hated to be cowed before Lewis. The boy was
-looking downwards, his eyes on the ground; the dog nestled close to
-him. Both Skelton and Bulstrode remained silent for a moment or two.
-
-“You know,” said Skelton after a pause, “I am not a man to threaten.”
-
-“Yes, by Jove, I do,” answered Bulstrode, breaking into a complaining
-whine. “I don’t know why it is, Skelton, that you can always bully
-me; unless it’s because you’re a gentleman, and I ain’t. You dashed
-patricians always have us plebes under the hack--always, always. The
-fellows that went ahorseback were always better than those who went
-afootback. Sometimes, by George, I wish I had been born a gentleman!”
-
-Bulstrode’s collapse was so rapid and complete that wrath could not
-hold against him. Skelton merely said something about an unbridled
-tongue being a firebrand, and then, turning to Lewis, said:
-
-“The harvest is the black man’s holiday. Come with me, and we will see
-him enjoy it.”
-
-Skelton’s tone to Lewis was peculiar; although his words were cold, and
-his manner reserved, his voice expressed a strange fondness. Lewis felt
-sorry for Bulstrode, standing alone and ashamed, and after he had gone
-a little way by Skelton’s side he turned back and ran toward Bulstrode,
-holding out his book.
-
-“Won’t you have my Horace for company, Mr. Bulstrode?” he cried;
-“though I believe you know every word in it. But a book is
-company--when one can’t get a dog, that is.”
-
-“Yes, boy,” answered Bulstrode, taking one hand out of his pocket. “Old
-Horace and I will forget this workaday world. We have had a good many
-bouts in our time, Horatius Flaccus and I. The old fellow was a good
-judge of wine. Pity he didn’t know anything about tobacco.” He began
-speaking with a sigh, and ended with a grin.
-
-Skelton and Lewis turned off together, and walked along the edge of the
-field. The fresh, sweet scent of the newly cut wheat filled the air;
-the clover blossoms that grew with the wheat harboured a cloud of happy
-bees; over the land hung a soft haze. Lewis drank in delightedly all
-of the languid beauty of the scene, and so did Skelton in his quiet,
-controlled way.
-
-Lewis shrewdly suspected that the reason Skelton carried him off was to
-get him out of Bulstrode’s way, for although Bulstrode was nominally
-his tutor, and had plenty of opportunities for talking, he was not
-always as communicative as on that morning. The boy was much in awe
-of Skelton. He could not altogether make out his own feelings in the
-matter. He knew of no relationship between them, and thought he knew he
-was the son of Thomas Pryor, in his lifetime a tutor of Skelton’s. He
-called Skelton “Mr. Skelton,” and never remembered to have had a caress
-from him in all his life. But he never looked into Skelton’s eyes,
-which were precisely like his own, that he did not feel as if some
-strong and secret bond united them.
-
-Meanwhile, Bulstrode stood in his careless attitude, looking after
-them, his eyes fixed on Skelton’s straight, well set-up figure.
-
-“There you go,” he apostrophised. “Most men think they could advise the
-Almighty; but you, Richard Skelton, think yourself _the_ Lord Almighty
-Himself! Unbridled tongue, indeed! I lay odds that I’ll make you write
-that sixth section of your Introduction over again before this day is
-out. I know a weak spot in your theory that knocks that chapter into
-flinders, and I’ve been saving it up for just such an occasion as this.
-But go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
-
-  “Fair and free is the king’s highway!”
-
-he sang, loudly and sweetly.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II.
-
-
-It is impossible for anything in this tame, latter-day age to be
-compared with the marvels of fifty, sixty, seventy years ago. The
-worn-out, tired race declines to be awed, or delighted, or startled any
-more. “Old Wonder is dead.” People have lost the sense of admiration.
-It is the price paid for civilisation.
-
-But it was not always so. Fifty years ago the romantic, the
-interesting, even the mysterious, still existed. Luxury was rare,
-and life was so hard and poor to most people on this continent that
-imagination had to be called in to make it even tolerable. Superlatives
-had not gone out of fashion, and therefore it is quite just to apply
-the words grand, magnificent, superb, to Deerchase. True, if that
-deadly enemy of superlatives, comparison, be levelled against it, there
-is no doubt the irreverent modern would smile; for what the fresh,
-wonder-loving people in 1820 thought ineffably splendid, the jaded,
-sated people of 19-- would think cheap, tawdry, not worth speaking of,
-after all. So that the pictures in the main hall at Deerchase would
-be pronounced mediocre, the park rather ambitious than imposing, the
-stables and the establishment generally insignificant compared with
-those of the merchant princes of to-day. But the owner of Deerchase
-had this immense advantage over the rich people of to-day--not the
-whole possessions of all of them could command half the awe, delight,
-and distinction that Deerchase did in its time. And if the power of
-places to awe and delight be gone, what shall be said of the lost power
-of individuals? But in 1820 hero worship survived with many other
-beautiful and imaginative things that the world has outgrown; and
-Richard Skelton, Esquire, was an object of envy and admiration to the
-whole county, and to half the State of Virginia besides.
-
-For Richard Skelton, Esquire, was certainly born with a golden, not
-a silver, spoon in his mouth. In his childhood his dark beauty and a
-certain proud, disdainful air, natural to him, made him look like a
-little prince. In those days Byron was the poet; and the boy, with
-his great fortune, his beauty, his orphanhood, his precocious wit and
-melancholy, was called a young Lara. As he grew older, there were
-indications in him of strange mental powers, and a cool and determined
-will that was perfectly unbreakable. He brooded his youth away (in
-these degenerate days it would be said he loafed) sadly and darkly in
-the library at Deerchase. Old Tom Shapleigh, his guardian, who feared
-neither man nor devil, and who was himself a person of no mean powers,
-always felt, when his ward’s dark, inscrutable eyes were fixed upon
-him, a ridiculous and awkward inferiority--the more ridiculous and
-awkward because old Tom really had accomplished a good deal in life,
-while Richard Skelton could not possibly have accomplished anything
-at the very early age when he was perfectly commanding, not to say
-patronising, to his guardian. Old Tom did not take charge of the great
-Skelton property and the strange Skelton boy for pure love. The profits
-of managing such a property were considerable, and he was the very best
-manager of land and negroes in all the region about. But the Skelton
-boy, from the time he was out of round jackets, always assumed an air
-toward his guardian as if the guardian were merely his agent. This
-gave old Tom much saturnine amusement, for he was one of those men
-whose sense of humour was so sharp that he could smile over his own
-discomfiture at the hands of a haughty stripling, and could even laugh
-grimly at the burden of a silly wife, which he had taken upon himself.
-
-For those who like life with a good strong flavour to it, Skelton
-and old Tom Shapleigh, and the people around them, were not devoid
-of interest. They belonged to a sturdy, well-fed, hard riding, hard
-drinking, landed aristocracy that was as much rooted to the land as
-the great oaks that towered in the virgin woods. All landowners are
-more or less bound to the soil; but these people were peculiarly so,
-because they had no outside world. There was no great city on this
-side of the Atlantic Ocean, and their journeys were merely a slight
-enlargement of their orbit. Their idea of seeing the world was a trip
-in the family coach to the Springs, where they met exactly the same
-people, bearing the same names, that they had left at home. This fixity
-and monotony produced in them an intensity of provincialism, a strength
-of prejudice, hardly to be conceived of now. They were only a few
-generations removed from an English ancestry, which in this new land
-prayed daily, “God bless England, our sweet native country!” Feudalism,
-in the form of a mild and patriarchal slave system, was still strong
-with them when it had gone to decay in Europe. The brighter sun had
-warmed their blood somewhat; they were more fiery and more wary than
-their forefathers. They were arrogant, yet simple-minded, and loved
-power more than money. They also loved learning, after their fashion,
-and kept the roster full at William and Mary College. But their
-learning was used to perpetuate their political power. By means of
-putting all their men of parts into politics, they managed to wage
-successfully an unequal fight for power during many generations. The
-same kind of equality existed among them as among the Spanish grandees,
-who call each other by their nicknames as freely as peasants, but are
-careful to give an outsider all his titles and dignities. There was
-a vast deal of tinsel in their cloth of gold; their luxuries were
-shabbily pieced out, and they were not quite as grand as they fancied
-themselves. But, after all, there is something imposing in a system
-which gives a man his own land, his house built of his own timber,
-his bricks made of his own red clay, his servants clothed and shod
-by his own workmen, his own blacksmiths, wheelwrights, carpenters,
-shoemakers--in short, a little kingdom of which he is the sovereign.
-Naturally it makes him arrogant, but it also makes him independent;
-and where each man stands upon punctilio everybody is likely to be
-polite. So they had few quarrels, but such as they had were deadly. The
-hair-splitting, the subtleties of the _fin du siècle_ were unknown,
-undreamed of, by them. Everything was simple and direct--love, hate,
-fear, remorse, and joy. God and the devil were close to every man.
-Their lives were fixed, and had the continuity of an epic, instead
-of the fragmentary, disjointed lives that the people of to-day are
-living. And as they were necessarily obliged to spend all their mortal
-days together, they knew each other and each other’s generations like
-a book, and this effectually estopped pretension of all sorts. It was
-a picturesque, gay, pleasure-loving life, its Arcadian simplicity
-sometimes interrupted by tragedies, but it only lasted until the
-railroad and the telegraph brought all the world within speaking
-distance.
-
-The rivers, broad and shallow and salt, that made in from the ocean
-bays, were the spots wisely chosen for the homesteads. The plantations
-extended back into a slightly rolling country, but every “p’int,” as
-the negroes called it, was the site for a house. At Deerchase, from
-the long stone porch covered with climbing tea roses, which faced the
-shining river, half a dozen rambling brick houses on their respective
-“p’ints” could be seen. The farthest off was only a mile up the river
-as the crow flies, but the indentations of the stream made it more, and
-when one undertook to go by land, the multitude of gates to be opened
-between different properties and the various windings and turnings to
-get there at all made it seem a dozen miles at least. This last place
-was Newington, where Mr. and Mrs. Jack Blair lived, and which Bulstrode
-so freely predicted would be in the market soon on account of a grudge
-owed the Blairs by the Great Panjandrum--Richard Skelton, Esquire. The
-next place to Deerchase was Belfield, where old Tom Shapleigh and that
-wonderful woman, Mrs. Shapleigh, lived with their daughter Sylvia, who
-had inherited more than her father’s brains and less than her mother’s
-beauty. Only a shallow creek, running into a marsh, divided Deerchase
-and Belfield, and it was not twenty minutes’ walk from one house to the
-other. This nearness had been very convenient to old Tom in managing
-the Skelton property, but it had not conduced to any intimacy between
-guardian and ward. Richard Skelton was not much above Mr. Shapleigh’s
-shoulder when he took to asking to be excused when his guardian called.
-Old Tom resented this impertinence as an impetuous, full-blooded,
-middle-aged gentleman might be expected to. He stormed up and down the
-Deerchase hall, nearly frightened Bob Skinny, the black butler, into
-fits, blazed away at the tutor, who would go and plead with the boy
-through the keyhole of a locked door.
-
-“My dear Richard, come out and see your guardian; Mr. Shapleigh
-particularly wants to see you.”
-
-“And I particularly don’t want to see Mr. Shapleigh; so go away and
-leave me,” young Skelton would answer in his smooth, soft voice.
-
-As there was nothing for old Tom to do unless he kicked the door down,
-he would go home fuming, and have to content himself with writing very
-fierce and ungrammatical letters, of which the spelling was reckless,
-but the meaning plain, to his ward, which were never answered. Then old
-Tom would begin to laugh--it was so comical--and the next time he met
-the boy there would be that same haughty reserve on Skelton’s part, at
-which his guardian did not know whether to be most angry or amused. He
-was philosophic under it, though, and would say:
-
-“Look at the tutors I’ve got for him, begad! and every man-jack of
-them has been under the hack of that determined little beggar from the
-start. And when a man, woman, or child can get the upper hand of one
-who lives in daily, hourly contact, why, you might just as well let
-’em go their own gait. Damme, _I_ can’t do anything with the arrogant
-little upstart!”
-
-No expense was spared in tutors, and, as each successive one had a
-horse to ride and a servant to wait on him, and was treated politely by
-young Skelton as long as he was let alone, the tutors never complained,
-and old Tom was quite in the dark as to his ward’s real acquirements.
-Mrs. Shapleigh frequently urged Mr. Shapleigh to go over to Deerchase
-and demand categorically of Richard Skelton exactly how much Latin and
-mathematics he knew, but old Tom had tried that caper unsuccessfully
-several times. He did find out, though--or rather Mrs. Shapleigh found
-out for him--that Skelton had fallen desperately in love with his
-cousin, Elizabeth Armistead, who was as poor as a church mouse; and,
-although Elizabeth was known to have a weakness for Jack Blair, her
-whole family got after her and bullied her into engaging herself to the
-handsome stripling at Deerchase. Skelton was then twenty. Elizabeth
-herself was only seventeen, but seventeen was considered quite old
-in those days. This affair annoyed Mrs. Shapleigh very much, whose
-daughter Sylvia, being about ten years old at the time, she looked
-forward to seeing established as mistress of Deerchase by the time she
-was eighteen.
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh,” his better half complained, “why don’t you go over to
-Deerchase and tell Richard Skelton up and down, that if he has fallen
-in love with Elizabeth Armistead he has got to fall out again?”
-
-“My love, if I wanted him to fall out of love I’d let him get married.
-There’s no such specific for love as matrimony, madam.”
-
-“It is not, indeed, Mr. Shapleigh,” answered madam, who, though weak in
-logic was not deficient in spirit, “and I’m sure that’s what my poor
-dear mother used to tell me when I thought I was in love with you. But
-just look at those Armisteads! Not a penny among them scarcely, and
-plotting and planning ever since Richard Skelton was born to get him
-for Elizabeth!”
-
-“Gadzooks, ma’am, in that case the Armisteads are too clever for all of
-us, because they must have been planning the match at least three years
-before Elizabeth was born.”
-
-“Now, Mr. Shapleigh, how silly you talk! Of course they couldn’t have
-planned it before Elizabeth was born. But it does seem a hard case that
-Richard Skelton should be carried off right under our noses, and Sylvia
-here quite ten years old, and I with my heart set on seeing her Mrs.
-Skelton, of Deerchase. But those Armisteads are a designing pack. You
-may take my word for it.”
-
-“I do, my life, I do,” cried old Tom with a wink. Meanwhile there was
-no doubt that young Skelton was indeed violently in love with his
-cousin Elizabeth. It was his first passion, and he pursued it with an
-indescribable fierceness. Elizabeth, who had both beauty and spirit,
-was a little frightened at the intensity of his love and jealousy.
-She had been engaged to Jack Blair, of Newington, who was accounted a
-good match and was a gallant, lovable fellow enough, but, dazzled by
-Skelton’s personality and position and money, and beset by her family,
-she threw her lover over. They had one last interview, when Blair left
-her weeping and wringing her hands, while he threw himself on his horse
-and galloped home with a face as black as midnight.
-
-Elizabeth could not quite forget Blair, and Skelton was too subtle not
-to see it. He lavished contempt on Blair, calling him a great hulking
-country squire, who cared for nothing but a screeching run after the
-hounds or a roaring flirtation with a pretty girl. He quite overlooked
-a certain quality of attraction about Blair which made women love him,
-children fondle him, and dogs fawn upon him. Skelton waked up to it,
-though, one fine morning, when he found that Elizabeth and Blair had
-decamped during the night and were then on their way to North Carolina
-to be married.
-
-How Skelton took it nobody knew. He shut himself up in the library
-at Deerchase, and no one dared to come near him except Bob Skinny,
-who would tiptoe softly to the door once in a while with a tray and
-something to eat. There was a feeling in the county as if Abingdon
-Church had suddenly tumbled down, or the river had all at once turned
-backwards, when it was known that Richard Skelton had been actually and
-ignominiously jilted. Mrs. Shapleigh had a good heart, and, in spite
-of her plans for Sylvia, felt sorry for Skelton.
-
-“Do, Mr. Shapleigh,” she pleaded, “go over and see poor Richard
-Skelton, and tell him there’s as good fish in the sea as ever were
-caught.”
-
-“Zounds, madam,” answered old Tom, with energy, “I’m no poltroon, but
-I wouldn’t trust myself in the Deerchase library with that message for
-ten thousand dollars! He’d murder me. You’d be a widow, ma’am, as sure
-as shooting.”
-
-“Well, Mr. Shapleigh, I hope, if I ever am a widow, I shall submit
-cheerfully to the Lord’s will; and I shall have as handsome a monument
-put up over you as there is in the county.”
-
-“And I’ll do the same by you, my dear, if you should precede me. I’ll
-have one big enough to put on it the longest epitaph you ever saw; and
-I’ll tell my second wife every day of the virtues of my first.”
-
-“Oh, oh, Mr. Shapleigh, why will you start such dreadful subjects!”
-cried Mrs. Shapleigh, in great distress.
-
-Let it not be supposed that Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh were not as
-comfortable as most married couples. Unlike most, though, in
-thirty years it had not been determined which was the better man.
-Mrs. Shapleigh had the mighty weapon of silliness, which has won
-many matrimonial battles. She never knew when she was beaten, and
-consequently remained unconquered. Old Tom, having married, like the
-average man, because the woman tickled his fancy, accepted with great
-good humour the avalanche of daily disgust that he had brought upon
-himself, and joked over his misfortune, instead of cutting his throat
-about it.
-
-But as the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, Mr. Shapleigh was
-blessed with a slight deafness, which varied according to whether
-he did or did not want to hear what Mrs. Shapleigh was saying. At
-particular stages in an argument, or at the mention of certain
-expenses, he always became as deaf as a post. He did not believe
-in cures for deafness, and held on to his beloved infirmity like a
-drowning man to a plank.
-
-Thirty years of bickering rather endeared them to each other,
-particularly as neither had a bad heart. But old Tom sometimes thought,
-with a dash of tragedy, that had the visitation of God come upon him
-in the shape of a foolish daughter, he would have been tempted to cut
-his throat, after all. Sylvia, however, was far from foolish, and Mr.
-Shapleigh sometimes felt that Fate had treated him shabbily in making
-his daughter as much too clever as his wife was too silly.
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh sent for Bob Skinny, that he might describe Skelton’s
-sufferings to her. Bob, who considered the master of Deerchase
-the first person in the universe, and the butler of Deerchase the
-second, gloried, after the manner of his race, in the magnitude of
-everything--even their misfortunes--that befell the Skeltons.
-
-“Miss Belindy, Mr. Skelton”--this was an innovation in title; but Bob
-Skinny considered Skelton much too grand to be spoken of simply as
-“Marse Richard”--“Mr. Skelton he is de mos’ distrusted you ever see. He
-ain’ eat a mou’full for two weeks lars’ Sad’day, an’ he ain’ sleep a
-wink for a mont’!”
-
-“La, Bob, he’ll be ill if he doesn’t eat or sleep.”
-
-“De Skeltons dey kin go ’dout eatin’ an’ sleepin’ more’n common ev’yday
-folks,” responded Bob, with dignity.
-
-“Maybe,” said Mrs. Shapleigh sympathetically, “a course of tansy tea
-would cure him if his spirits are so bad; and if he’d put some old
-nails in a stone jar and pour some water on them, and take it three
-times a day, it is as good a tonic as he could find. And if he won’t go
-out of the library to take any exercise, if you’d persuade him to swing
-a flat-iron about in either hand, it would expand his lungs and do for
-exercise.”
-
-None of these suggestions, however, reached young Skelton, shut up in
-the library, raging like a wild creature.
-
-In a month or two, however, he appeared again, looking exactly as he
-always had looked, and nobody dared to cast a sympathising glance upon
-him.
-
-About that time a political pamphlet appeared anonymously. It made
-a tremendous sensation. It was, for its day, wildly iconoclastic.
-It pointed out the defects in the social system in Virginia, and
-predicted, with singular force and clearness, the uprooting of the
-whole thing unless a change was inaugurated from within. It showed that
-navigation and transportation were about to be revolutionised by steam,
-and that, while great material prosperity would result for a time, it
-meant enormous and cataclysmal changes, which might be destructive or
-might be made almost recreative.
-
-This pamphlet set the whole State by the ears. On the hustings, in the
-newspapers, in private and in public, it was eagerly discussed. Even
-the pulpiteers took a shy at it. The authorship was laid at the door of
-every eminent man in the State and some outside, and it suddenly came
-out that it was written by the black-eyed, disappointed boy locked up
-in the Deerchase library.
-
-The commotion it raised--the storm of blame and praise--might well have
-turned any head. Its literary excellence was unquestioned. Skelton was
-considered an infant Junius. But if it produced any effect upon him,
-nobody knew it, for there was not the smallest elation in his manner,
-or, in fact, any change whatever in him.
-
-“That pamphlet ends my guardianship,” remarked old Tom Shapleigh
-shrewdly, “although the boy is still ten months off from his majority.”
-
-Mr. Shapleigh had been vainly trying to get young Skelton to attend
-the University of Virginia, but at this time, without consulting his
-guardian, Skelton betook himself to Princeton. To say that old Tom was
-in a royal rage is putting it very mildly. He felt himself justified
-in his wrath, but was careful to exercise it at long range--in writing
-furious letters, to which Skelton vouchsafed no reply. Nevertheless old
-Tom promptly cashed the drafts made on him by his ward. At Princeton
-Skelton apparently spent his time reading French novels, smoking,
-and studying problems in chess; but at the end of two years it was
-discovered that he had made a higher average than had ever been made by
-any man at the university except Aaron Burr. As if content with this,
-however, Skelton left without taking his degree. But about that time he
-published a pamphlet under his own name. The title was Voices of the
-People. Its success was vast and immediate, even surpassing that of its
-predecessor. He was now twenty-two years old, his own master, graceful,
-full of distinction in his air and manner. The greatest things were
-expected of him.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III.
-
-
-So far, Skelton was a magnificent promise. He remained at Deerchase a
-year, which he spent chiefly in improving the house and grounds, which
-were already beautiful. This gave him a very good excuse for keeping
-strictly to himself. Then he determined to go to Europe. His old flame,
-Mrs. Jack Blair, now lived at Newington, and every time she looked out
-of her windows she could see the noble brick pile of Deerchase. The
-house was a fine old colonial mansion, with walls three feet thick, and
-numbers of large and lofty rooms. Skelton added to it with great taste,
-and had his grounds laid out by a famous landscape gardener. Newington
-was very shabby; and if Mrs. Blair had been an envious woman--which she
-was not--she might have suffered many pangs because of the contrast
-between the two places. Mrs. Shapleigh declared that Skelton’s only
-object in improving Deerchase was to spite Mrs. Blair. But it certainly
-spited Mrs. Shapleigh dreadfully. She was seized with a desire that
-Belfield should rival Deerchase. Now, the Shapleighs were very well
-off, and Belfield was a large and handsome country house, but there
-was no rivalling Deerchase in the matter. Skelton had dollars where
-old Tom Shapleigh had dimes. Whenever Mrs. Shapleigh would start the
-subject of improving Belfield, Mr. Shapleigh would become so totally
-and obstinately deaf that there was no making him hear at all; so,
-as Mrs. Shapleigh was a much-indulged woman, she went to work on her
-own book to do landscape gardening, and to make Belfield as smart as
-Deerchase. The effect was fearful and wonderful. A Chinese pagoda
-was clapped on to one wing of the Belfield house. This was meant for
-a tower. Much red velvet furniture was bought, and old Tom paid the
-bills, grinning sardonically as he did it.
-
-“I declare, Mr. Shapleigh,” Mrs. Shapleigh bewailed, “you’ve got no
-feeling for your own flesh and blood. There’s nothing more likely than
-that Sylvia will one day marry Richard Skelton, and then if we don’t
-furnish up some and improve the place, everybody will say she never was
-accustomed to anything until she went to Deerchase.”
-
-Mr. Shapleigh declined to weep over this terrible prospect. Then came
-the ornamentation of the grounds. Mrs. Shapleigh’s idea of decorative
-art was a liberal supply of fresh paint of every hue of the rainbow.
-She had an elaborate affair of knobs and latticework, painted a vivid
-green, put up in the river between Deerchase and Belfield, in place
-of the old water fence of posts and rails. A fence of some sort was
-necessary to keep the cattle from wading down the salt marshes and
-following the river shore into forbidden fields. The cows came tramping
-placidly down the marshy creek until they got to the wonderful water
-fence, where they turned tail and trotted rapidly off, their frightened
-calves bleating after them. The picturesque, unpainted bridge across
-the creek was metamorphosed into a highly ornate construction with a
-summerhouse in the middle, expressly designed for Sylvia, who was then
-in short frocks, and Skelton to do their courting in eventually. Never
-was there such general overhauling and painting. The pigeon house was
-painted red and the turnstiles blue. When everything was done, and Mrs.
-Shapleigh was felicitating herself that Richard Skelton could no longer
-have the satisfaction of thinking Deerchase was unsurpassed, Skelton
-could not look toward Belfield without laughing, nor could anybody
-else, for that matter.
-
-Skelton spent a full year at Deerchase, and just as he had brought the
-house and grounds to perfection this sudden idea of going to Europe
-possessed him. It was a great undertaking in those days. He had nobody
-to consult, nobody knew he was going, and nobody would grieve for
-him except some of the older house servants. Although Skelton was an
-indulgent master, he never exchanged a word with his negroes, who were
-entirely managed by overseers. The afternoon before he left he was
-on the river in his boat. It was a cloudy September day. Usually the
-scene was full of light and glow--the broad, bright river, the cheerful
-homesteads, his own beautiful Deerchase, and not even Mrs. Shapleigh,
-had been able to spoil the fair face of Nature with her miscalled
-ornamentation; but on that day it was dull and inexpressibly gloomy.
-A grey mist folded the distant landscape. The river went sullenly to
-the sea. Afar off in the marshes could be heard the booming of the
-frogs--the most doleful of sounds--and the occasional fugitive cry of
-birds going south rang shrilly from the leaden sky.
-
-Skelton sailed up and down, almost up to Newington, and down again to
-Lone Point--a dreary, sandy point, where three tall and melancholy
-pine trees grew almost at the water’s edge, and where the river
-opened widely into the bay. He felt that strange mixture of sadness
-and exultation which people felt in those far-off days when they were
-about to start for distant countries. There was not a soul in sight,
-except in the creek by the water fence; Sylvia Shapleigh was standing
-barefooted, with her skirts tucked up. Her shoes and stockings lay on
-the bank. She had on a white sunbonnet, much beruffled, and was holding
-something down in the water with a forked stick.
-
-She was then about twelve years old, with a delicate, pretty,
-thoughtful face, and beautiful grey eyes. So unlike was she to her
-father and mother that she might have been a changeling.
-
-Skelton guessed at once what she was after. She was catching the crabs
-that came up to feed in these shallow, marshy creeks; but after pinning
-her crab down she was evidently in a quandary how to get at him. As
-Skelton watched her with languid interest she suddenly gave a faint
-scream, her sunbonnet fell off into the water, and she stood quite
-still and began to cry.
-
-Skelton ran the boat’s nose ashore within twenty yards of her, and,
-jumping out, went to her, splashing through the water.
-
-“Oh, oh!” screamed poor Sylvia, “my foot--he’s got my foot!”
-
-Skelton raised her small white foot out of the water, and in half a
-minute the crab was dexterously “spancelled” and thrown away, but there
-was a cruel mark on the child’s foot, and blood was coming. She looked
-at Skelton with wide, frightened eyes, crying bitterly all the time.
-
-“Come, my dear,” said Skelton, soothingly, “let me pick you up and
-carry you home.”
-
-“I d-d-don’t want to go home,” wailed Sylvia.
-
-“But something must be done for your foot, child.”
-
-“Then take me to Deerchase, and let Mammy Kitty do it.”
-
-Skelton was puzzled by the child’s unwillingness to go home. But Sylvia
-soon enlightened him.
-
-“If I g-go home mamma will scold me, and she will cry over me, and make
-me keep on crying, and that will make my head ache; and if I can get
-s-something done for my foot--”
-
-“But won’t your mother be frightened about you if I take you to
-Deerchase?” asked Skelton.
-
-“No--ooo--oo!” bawled Sylvia, still weeping; “she lets me stay out
-until sundown. And she’ll make _such_ a fuss over my foot if I go home!”
-
-Determination was expressed in every line of Sylvia’s tearful, pretty
-face. Skelton silently went back to the shore, got her shoes and
-stockings, went to his boat and brought it up, Sylvia meanwhile keeping
-up a furious beating of the water with her forked stick to frighten
-the crabs off. Skelton lifted her in the boat, and they sailed along
-to the Deerchase landing. Sylvia wiped her feet on the curtain of her
-sunbonnet, put on her stockings and one shoe, and nursed the injured
-foot tenderly. Skelton lifted her out on the little stone pier he had
-had built, and then proceeded to take down the sail and tie the boat.
-
-“I think,” said Sylvia calmly, “you’ll have to carry me to the house.”
-
-“Hadn’t you better let me send for my _calèche_ and pair for you?”
-gravely asked Skelton.
-
-“Oh, no,” cried Sylvia briskly, and Skelton without a word picked her
-up and walked across the grassy lawn to the house. She was very light,
-and, except for flapping her wet sunbonnet in his face, he had no
-objection whatever to her. He carried her up the steps into the hall,
-and then turned her over to Mammy Kitty, who wrapped her foot in wet
-cabbage-leaves. Skelton went to the library. Presently, Bob Skinny’s
-woolly head was thrust in the door.
-
-“Please, sah, Mr. Skelton, de young lady say will you please to come
-d’yar?”
-
-Skelton, smiling at himself, rose and went back to the hall. Sylvia was
-perched on one foot, like a stork.
-
-“I think,” she said, “if you’ll give me your arm I can walk around and
-look at the pretty things. Whenever I’ve been here with mamma she has
-always asked so many questions that I didn’t like to ask any myself.”
-
-“You may ask any questions you like,” replied Skelton, still smiling.
-He never remembered exchanging a word with the child before. He had
-taken for granted that she was her mother’s own daughter, and as such
-he had no wish to cultivate her.
-
-But Sylvia was not at all like her mother. She limped around the hall,
-looking gravely at the portraits.
-
-The Skeltons were a handsome family, if the portraits could be
-believed. They were all dark, with clear-cut faces and high aquiline
-noses like Skelton’s, and they were all young.
-
-“_We_ have some portraits, you know,” remarked Sylvia, “but they are
-all old and ugly. Now, all of these are of pretty little girls and boys
-or handsome young ladies.”
-
-“The Skeltons are not a long-lived family,” said Skelton. “They
-generally die before forty. Here is one--Janet Skelton--a little girl
-like you. She died at eighteen.”
-
-Sylvia turned her grey eyes full of a limpid green light towards him
-pityingly.
-
-“Aren’t you going to live long?”
-
-“Perhaps,” replied Skelton, smiling.
-
-“I think,” said Sylvia calmly, after a while, “if I were grown up I
-should like to live here.”
-
-“Very well,” answered Skelton, who at twenty-two thought the
-twelve-year-old Sylvia a toddling infant; “as I intend to be an old
-bachelor, you may come and be my little sister. You may have my
-mother’s room--here it is.”
-
-He opened a door close by, and they entered a little sitting room,
-very simple and old-fashioned, and in no way corresponding to the rest
-of the house. It had whitewashed walls above the wainscoting, and the
-furniture was in faded yellow damask.
-
-“I intend to let this room remain as it is, to remind me that I was
-once a boy, for this is the first room I remember in the Deerchase
-house.”
-
-Sylvia looked around with calmly contemptuous eyes.
-
-“When I come to Deerchase to live I shall make this room as fine as the
-rest. But I must go home now. I can get my shoe on, and perhaps mamma
-won’t notice that I limp a little. You’d better take me in the boat, so
-I can get back to the house from the river shore.”
-
-Skelton, who thought it high time she was returning, at once agreed. As
-he lifted her out of the boat on the Belfield shore a sudden impulse
-made him say:
-
-“Sylvia, can you keep a secret?”
-
-“Of course I can,” answered Sylvia promptly.
-
-“Then--I am going away to-morrow morning, to be gone a year, perhaps
-longer. This is the last sail I shall take upon the river for a long,
-long time.”
-
-Sylvia’s eyes were full of regret. Although she had seen Skelton at a
-distance nearly every day of her life when he was at Deerchase, and
-had also seen him upon the rare occasions that visits were exchanged
-between the two places, yet he had all the charm of a new and dazzling
-acquaintance to her. She never remembered speaking a word with him
-before, but there was a delightful intimacy between them now, she
-thought. She expressed her regret at his going so volubly that Skelton
-was forced to laugh; and she wound up by flinging her arms around his
-neck and kissing him violently. At this Skelton thought it time to
-leave. His last glimpse of Sylvia was as she stood swinging her wet,
-white sunbonnet dolefully on the sandy shore.
-
-That night a terrible storm came up. It flooded all the low-lying
-fields, swept over the prim gardens at Deerchase, and washed away a
-part of the bridge between Deerchase and Belfield. When, at daylight in
-the morning, Skelton, with Bob Skinny, left Deerchase, everything was
-under water, and trees and shrubs and fences and hedges bore witness of
-the fury of the wind and the rain. Skelton’s last view of Deerchase was
-a gloomy one. He meant then to be gone a year; he remained away fifteen
-years.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV.
-
-
-Meanwhile things went on placidly enough around the silent and
-uninhabited Deerchase. The negroes worked the plantation under the
-overseer’s management, and the house was well cared for, as well as the
-grounds. Every year there was an alarm that Skelton was coming home,
-but he never came. At last, like a thunderclap, came the news that he
-was married to an English woman of rank and wealth.
-
-Sylvia Shapleigh was then eighteen, pretty and full of romance. That
-one interview with Skelton had been with her the dividing line between
-childhood and womanhood. She brooded over it, and as she grew older she
-fell in love with an imaginary Skelton, who was to come home and make
-her the grandest lady in the county. She began to look upon Deerchase
-as her own, and could picture vividly to herself her gay and splendid
-life there. She was haughty to the young squires who openly admired
-her, and secretly declared herself meat for their masters. She was
-proud and spirited to the last degree, and it seemed to her in her
-arrogance and inexperience, that Nature had destined her for something
-great; and what could be greater than to be Mrs. Richard Skelton?
-
-When the news came of Skelton’s marriage, Mrs. Shapleigh was luckily
-away from home on a visit of several days. Sylvia, on hearing of
-the marriage, rose and went to her own room, where she gave way to
-a passion of disappointment as acute as if the bond between Richard
-Skelton and herself were a real one, instead of the mere figment of a
-child’s imagination. It made no difference that it was wholly baseless
-and fanciful. In that simple and primitive age, romantic young things
-like Sylvia had plenty of time and opportunity to cultivate sentiment.
-The only really splendid thing she ever saw in her life was Deerchase,
-and she saw it whenever she chose to turn her eyes toward it. She knew
-nothing of the power of new scenes to make one forget the old ones,
-and the extreme prettiness of the story that she made up for Skelton
-and herself charmed her. But then came this sudden disillusion. In the
-twinkling of an eye her castle in Spain fell, to rise no more.
-
-But Sylvia, in common with most people who possess thinking and
-feeling powers of a high order, had also a great fund of sound good
-sense, which came to her rescue. She learned to smile at her own
-childish folly, but it was rather a sad and bitter smile: the folly
-was childish, but the pain was startlingly real. She did not like
-to look at Deerchase after that, because it brought home to her how
-great a fool she had been. And then, having lost that illusion--sad to
-say--she had no other to take its place. Nothing is more intolerable to
-a young, imaginative soul than to be turned out of the fairy kingdom
-of fancy. It is all theirs--palaces, smiling courtiers, crown jewels,
-and all--and they revel in a royal summer time. Then, some fine day,
-the pretty dream melts away and leaves a black abyss, and then Common
-Sense, the old curmudgeon, shows himself; and when, as in Sylvia’s
-case, the palace would be rebuilt, the flattering courtiers recalled,
-the recollection of the pain of its destruction is too keen. Driven
-by common sense, Sylvia concluded to live in the real world, not in
-the imaginary one. This wise resolve was a good deal helped by the
-grotesque form the same picture that had been in her mind took in Mrs.
-Shapleigh’s. Sylvia could not help laughing any more than Mr. Shapleigh
-could when Mrs. Shapleigh was all for his sending a letter to Skelton,
-reproaching him for his “shameful treatment of Sylvia.”
-
-The worthy woman had got all the particulars of that odd, childish
-visit out of Sylvia, and bewailed herself as follows:
-
-“Was there ever such a poor, unlucky creature as I! Here for eighteen
-years I’ve had but one single, solitary idea in my head, and that
-was to see Sylvia mistress of Deerchase; and all through your fault,
-Mr. Shapleigh, in not throwing them together when you were Richard
-Skelton’s guardian, I am a heart-broken and disappointed woman. But now
-that I’ve had this awful blow, it’s as little as you can do to improve
-the house and put me up a new wing, as I’ve often asked you.”
-
-“Put you up a new swing?” asked Mr. Shapleigh, becoming very deaf.
-“Now, Belinda, what on earth do you want with a swing at your time of
-life? You’ll be wanting a skipping-rope next.”
-
-Mr. Shapleigh’s deafness was so obstinate regarding the proposed new
-wing that Mrs. Shapleigh was unable to make him understand her.
-
-Within six months came another startling piece of information.
-Skelton’s wife had died, and had left him a great fortune upon
-condition that he did not marry again.
-
-This nearly drove Mrs. Shapleigh crazy, and Mrs. Shapleigh, in turn,
-nearly drove Mr. Shapleigh crazy. Between the propriety and excellence
-of Mrs. Skelton’s dying and the abominable means she took to prevent
-Sylvia from marrying Skelton--for, of course, the whole scheme was
-levelled at Sylvia--Mrs. Shapleigh was at a loss whether to consider
-the dead woman as her best friend or her greatest enemy. Sylvia by
-that time had grown sensible. She had learned in that first ridiculous
-yet terrible experience the dangers of her splendid imagination and
-intense emotions, and resolved upon learning to govern both--and Sylvia
-had a good strong will of her own. She even smiled as she thought
-how tremendously she had concerned herself, at the time of Skelton’s
-marriage, about what really did not concern her in the least.
-
-Still Skelton did not come home. The old expectations of his coming
-intellectual achievements had by no means vanished. He had given
-such extraordinary promise! But there was time enough--he was not
-yet thirty. He was known to be studying at the German universities.
-He still kept up his interest in his Virginia affairs, and, although
-on the other side of the water, he even had a fine racing stable
-organised under the charge of Miles Lightfoot, who was a cross between
-a gentleman and a “leg.” Racing was the sport in those days, and the
-Campdown Jockey Club had just been started upon an imposing basis.
-Skelton became a liberal subscriber, and Miles Lightfoot was understood
-to have _carte blanche_ in the great affair of making Skelton’s stable
-the finest one in the State. Whatever Skelton did he must do better
-than anybody else, and, since his large access of fortune, money was
-less than ever an object to him. Skelton always heard with pleasure of
-his successes on the turf, and Miles Lightfoot found out by some occult
-means that his own excellent place and salary, from a professional
-point of view, depended upon Skelton’s horses always beating Jack
-Blair’s. For Skelton never forgot a friend or an enemy.
-
-At first this rivalry between Skelton’s stable and what Jack Blair
-modestly called his “horse or two” was a joke on the courthouse green
-and the race track. But when ten years had passed, and Jack Blair
-had been steadily losing money all the time on account of matching
-his horses against Skelton’s, it had ceased to be a joke. Blair had
-more than the average man’s pugnacity, and having early suspected
-that Skelton meant to ruin him, it only aroused a more dogged spirit
-of opposition in him. Old Tom Shapleigh in the beginning urged Blair
-to draw out of the fight, but Blair, with a very natural and human
-aggressiveness, refused. Elizabeth at first shared Blair’s confidence
-that he could beat Skelton’s horses as easily as he had run away with
-Skelton’s sweetheart, but she soon discovered her mistake. Blair was
-a superb farmer. He had twelve hundred acres under cultivation, and
-every year the bags of wheat marked “Newington” commanded a premium in
-the Baltimore market. But no matter how many thousand bushels of wheat
-Blair might raise, that “horse or two” ate it all up.
-
-There were two Blair children, Hilary and little Mary. Elizabeth Blair
-was full of ambition for her boy. He was to be educated as his father
-had been, first at William and Mary, afterwards at the University of
-Virginia. But she discovered that there was no money either to send the
-boy to school or to employ a tutor at home. Mrs. Blair bore this, to
-her, dreadful privation and disappointment with courage, partly born of
-patience and partly of a woman’s natural vanity. Blair never ceased to
-impress upon her that since Skelton chose to harbour his revenge all
-those years, that he--Blair--could not refuse to meet him, particularly
-as he had carried off the prize matrimonial in the case. Blair had the
-most winning manner in the world. When he would tip his wife’s chin up
-with his thumb, and say, “Hang it, Bess, I’ll meet Skelton on the race
-track, in the hunting field, anywhere he likes, and take my chances
-with him as I did before: I had tremendous odds against me then, but
-Fortune favoured me,” Elizabeth would feel an ineffable softness
-stealing over her towards her husband. Not many wives could boast of
-that sort of gallantry from their husbands. Blair was not disposed to
-underrate his triumph over Skelton. Every defeat of his “horse or two”
-was met by a debonair laugh, and a reminder, “By Jove, his horses may
-leg it faster than mine, but I beat him in a better race and for a
-bigger stake than any ever run on a race course!”
-
-This keeping alive of the old rivalry contained in it a subtile
-flattery to Elizabeth. But Blair himself was well calculated to
-charm. He was fond of a screeching run after the hounds, as Skelton
-contemptuously said, but he was a gentleman from the crown of his head
-to the sole of his foot. He might not give Hilary a tutor, or Mary a
-governess, but his children never heard him utter a rude word to their
-mother or any one else, or saw him guilty of the smallest _gaucherie_
-in word or deed. His negroes adored him, his horses came at his voice,
-his dogs disputed with his children for the touch of his hand. He knew
-all the poetry and romance existing, and a great many other things
-besides.
-
-It was easy enough to understand why he was the pet and darling of
-women--for the sex is discerning. Your true woman’s man is always a
-good deal of a man. This was the case with Jack Blair, in spite of
-his fatal fondness for a certain ellipse of a mile and a quarter,
-upon which he had lost more money than he cared to own up to. But, at
-least, there was no deceit about Blair. Elizabeth often implored him
-to promise her never to bet at the races, never to bet at cards, and a
-great many other things; but he always refused. “No,” he said, “I’ll
-make no promise I can’t keep. I may not be the best husband in the
-world, but at least I’ve never lied to you, and I don’t propose to put
-myself in the way of temptation now.”
-
-It was true that he had never even used a subterfuge towards her. But
-Elizabeth was haunted by a fear that Blair thought lightly of money
-obligations, and that inability to pay was not, to him, the terrible
-and disgraceful thing it was to her. Then, she was tormented by a
-perfectly ridiculous and feminine jealousy. For all she was a clever
-enough woman, in the matter of jealousy and a few other trifles of
-that kind all women are fools alike. This amused Blair hugely, who had
-a smile and a soft word and a squeeze of the hand for every woman in
-the county, Mrs. Shapleigh included, but who was the soul of loyalty
-to Elizabeth. If only he would give up horse racing! for so Elizabeth
-came to think to herself when the mortgages multiplied on Newington,
-and after every fall and spring meeting of the Jockey Club she was
-called upon to sign her name to something or other that Blair paid her
-for in the tenderest kisses. But there seemed to be a sort of fatality
-about the whole thing. Blair was thought to be the best judge of horses
-in the county, yet he rarely had a good horse, and more rarely still
-won a race. Something always happened at the last minute to upset his
-triumph. Like all men who are the willing victims of chance, Blair
-was a firm believer in luck. Everybody knows, he argued, that luck
-ebbs and flows. The more he lost on the Campdown course, the more he
-was eventually bound to win on that very course. Elizabeth, with her
-practical woman’s wit, did not believe at all in luck, but she believed
-in Blair, which was the same thing in that case. The county was a great
-one for racing, and at Abingdon Church every Sunday, the affairs of the
-Jockey Club were so thoroughly discussed by gentlemen sitting around
-on the flat tombstones during sermon-time, that the formal meetings
-were merely perfunctory. This way of turning church into a club meeting
-sincerely distressed the clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Conyers.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V.
-
-
-Mr. Conyers was one of the county gentry by birth, but it seemed as if
-the whole theory of heredity, as well as tradition, fell through in his
-case. The people had been used to jolly parsons, who rode to hounds and
-could stand up to their bottles of port quite as well as the laity.
-Indeed, it was reported that Mr. Conyer’s predecessor upon occasions
-only got to church in time to hustle his cassock on over his hunting
-jacket and breeches. But Conyers was more soul and spirit than body.
-He grew up tall, pale, slender, with but one wish on earth--to preach
-the gospel of Jesus Christ. He was an ascetic by nature--an ascetic
-among people whose temperaments were sybaritic, and to whom nature and
-circumstance cried perpetually, “Eat, drink, and be merry.” They were
-a very honest and chivalrous people, but their spiritual part had been
-feebly developed. Religion to them meant morality. To Conyers it meant
-morality and the whole question of man’s relations to his Maker besides.
-
-Conyers fancied that when he had begun his scholastic training for
-the ministry he would enter upon that course of enlightenment of
-the soul for which he longed. He was cruelly disappointed. He got a
-great deal of morality still, a little weak theology, and a general
-recommendation from his ecclesiastical superiors not to be too curious.
-He was astute enough to see that morality was one thing and religion
-another, but that as long as he maintained a high standard of personal
-behaviour he would be allowed a fearful liberty in his beliefs. It was
-not an age or a place of religious enquiry, and Conyers found that
-all the excellent young men prepared with him for the ministry, were
-perfectly well satisfied with historical and biblical explanations
-which, to him, appeared grotesquely insufficient. When his soul craved
-a knowledge of the Christian religion from its beginning, and when he
-would have studied it from the point of sincere belief in regard to its
-scope, design, and its effect on man, he was expected to confine his
-investigations within an inconceivably narrow range. Although knowing
-instinctively the difference between moral practices and religious
-beliefs, Conyers was too earnest a lover of moral beauty to put faith
-in any except a good man, and he early found that some very bad men
-were the fountain head of certain of his beliefs. He did not lack
-either courage or good parts, but he lacked knowledge dreadfully, and
-there was no fountain open to him. But the seal of the Levite was put
-upon him at his birth; tormented with doubts, longings, and terrible
-questionings, he must still preach the Word. He kept his burning
-thoughts to himself, and received ordination from highly moral men
-who had never thought enough to harbour a doubt. He went back to his
-native county an ordained clergyman, to begin what he believed to be
-his labour in his Master’s vineyard. But never had shepherd such a
-flock. When he tried to teach them spiritual things, they resented it
-as an attack on their morals. Old Tom Shapleigh, who was a vestryman,
-embodied the prevailing sentiment in his reply to Conyers when the
-clergyman tried to find out old Tom’s spiritual attitude.
-
-“Now, look here, Conyers, I’ve known you ever since you were born,
-and I was a regular communicant in Abingdon church before your father
-married your mother. I was married by a bishop--yes, zounds, sir, by
-a bishop!--and pretty dear it cost me in more ways than one. I don’t
-ill-treat my wife, or starve my negroes, or cheat my neighbour, and,
-further than that, you have nothing to do. Spiritual attitude be
-hanged! Go after the women if you want to talk that sort of thing.”
-
-Some of the women, notably Mrs. Blair, had a tender, religious
-sentiment that was grateful to poor Conyers, going blindly upon
-his way. But he could not accept the popular doctrine that only
-women had any spiritual side. To him the great fundamental facts of
-existence--the soul, the future life, all the mysterious hopes and
-fears of poor humanity concerning that future life--were problems that
-no thinking man could thrust aside. But when he tried to penetrate
-further than Mrs. Blair’s simple belief, her daily reading of the
-Bible to her children and servants, he found that he only startled and
-confused her. When he tried to get at the master of the house, Blair
-flatly refused to have anything to say regarding the state of his soul.
-The men like old Tom Shapleigh guyed Conyers; the men of finer fiber,
-like Jack Blair, avoided him. When Mr. Conyers, meeting Blair in the
-road, tried to talk religion to him, Blair put spurs to his horse and
-galloped off, laughing. When Conyers came to Newington on the same
-errand Blair announced to his wife that it was useless.
-
-“I’ll be shot if any parson living shall meddle with my religion! I
-don’t mind a little sermonising from you, my dear, and you know I made
-an agreement with you that if you’d let me smoke in the drawing-room
-I’d stand a chapter in the Bible every night; and the fact is, a man
-will take a little religious dragooning from his wife or his mother
-without grumbling. But when it comes to a man’s trying it--why, Conyers
-is an ass, that’s all.”
-
-Poor Conyers, repulsed on every side, knew not what to do. He found but
-one person in the whole community willing to _think_ on the subject of
-religion, although the women were usually quite ready enough to _feel_.
-This was Sylvia Shapleigh. But Sylvia wanted to be instructed.
-
-“Tell me,” she said, “what is true? The Bible puzzles me; I can’t
-understand it. Do you?”
-
-Conyers remained silent.
-
-“I see the necessity for right living, Mr. Conyers, for right feeling;
-but--there is something more. I know it as well as you.”
-
-Conyers’s glance sought Sylvia’s. Usually his eyes were rather cold
-and expressionless, but now they were full of a strange distress,
-an untold misery. Here was the first human being who had ever asked
-him for knowledge, and he was as helpless to answer her as a little
-child. And he aspired to be a teacher of men! He went home and studied
-furiously at some expurgated copies of the Fathers he possessed,
-and at a few more or less acute commentaries upon them: they did not
-give him one ray of light. He had two or three one-sided histories of
-the Reformation: these he read, and cast them aside in disgust. The
-readiness with which creeds were made, changed, made again, in the
-fifteenth century had always astounded and disheartened him. The old,
-old difficulty came back to him--provision was made everywhere for
-man’s moral nature, and he earnestly believed that provision had been
-made for man’s spiritual nature, but he could not find that provision
-in the narrow sphere to which his learning and his observation was
-confined. But cast, as he was, upon a vast and unknown sea of doubt,
-and feeling that he knew nothing, and could explain nothing, he
-confined himself to a plain and evangelical style of preaching and an
-ascetic strictness of life. He made some vain appeals for help from
-his ecclesiastical superior, the bishop, but the bishop plainly did
-not understand what Conyers was after, and bade him rather sharply
-to cease from troubling. He reminded Conyers of what a good salary
-Abingdon church paid him, and in what a very agreeable and hospitable
-community his lot was cast. As for the salary, it was very good on
-paper. But the laity had a fearful power over the clergy, for all of
-a clergyman’s comfort depended upon whether he made himself agreeable
-to his parishioners or not. Conyers found this the most harrowing,
-debasing, unapostolic circumstance in all his long list of miseries. He
-earned a living, but he had trouble in getting it. He was distinctly
-unpopular, and one of his first acts after taking charge of the
-parish was calculated to foment his unpopularity. He had scruples
-about slavery, as he had about everything, for he was a man tormented
-by a devil of scrupulosity. He had inherited five negroes, and these
-he set free and commended them to God. The result was appalling. Of
-the five, two became confirmed criminals, two died of exposure and
-neglect of themselves, and one was hanged for murder. The planters,
-seeing their own well-fed, well-cared-for slaves around them, pointed
-to Conyers’s experiment with triumph. _That_ was what freeing a lot of
-irresponsible half-monkeys meant! This humble tragedy haunted Conyers
-night and day, and almost drove him mad. Conyers had not been a young
-man when he was ordained, but after this he lost every vestige of
-youth. There were cruel hollows in his face, and his strange eyes grew
-more and more distressed in their expression. Nevertheless, he would
-not abandon any one of his theories and principles. The people were
-far from vindictive. On the contrary, they were singularly amiable and
-easy-going; and had they been any less easy-going, pastor and people
-would certainly have parted company. It would have required a concerted
-effort to get rid of him, and Conyers, although he would cheerfully
-have given up his daily bread for conscience’ sake, yet could not bear
-to part with his dream of being a teacher and preacher. And he knew
-what a discredited clergyman meant. So, alternately harassed with
-doubts and fixed in a dull despair, he presented that spectacle which
-the heathen philosopher declared to be the most touching sight in the
-world--a good man in adversity. His adversity had a practical side to
-it, too. As his congregation did not like him, they were lax about
-paying his salary. The pastors they were used to complained readily
-enough when the stipend was not forthcoming and drummed up delinquents
-briskly, which was a very good and wholesome thing for the delinquents;
-and it had not been so very long ago since the heavy hand of the law
-was laid upon parishioners who were forgetful of this. But the people
-waited for Conyers to remind them of what they owed, and he would
-rather have starved by inches than have asked them for a penny. So in
-this hospitable, delightful parish he was miserably, desperately poor.
-The only thing he wanted of his parishioners was what was due him, and
-that was the only thing they would not give him, for they were not
-ungenerous in other ways, and occasionally sent him bottles of Madeira
-when the rectory roof was leaking, and old Tom Shapleigh sent him
-regularly every winter a quarter of beef, which spoiled before the half
-of it was eaten. Conyers still took comfort in the tender emotional
-religion of some of the women, but Sylvia Shapleigh, whose restless
-mind traversed mental depths and heights unknown to most women, was the
-one, single, solitary person in the world who really understood why
-it was that Conyers was not a happy man. Sylvia herself, with a great
-flow of spirits and much wit and a ridiculously overrated beauty, was
-not happy either. Her good looks were overrated because she was so
-charming; but as she passed for a beauty it was all one. She had, it
-is true, a pair of lovely grey eyes, and a delicate complexion like a
-March primrose, and her walk was as graceful as the swallow’s flight.
-She was getting perilously fast out of her twenties, and there was
-apparently no more prospect of her marrying than at eighteen. Yet,
-just as people always expected Skelton to perform some wonderful
-intellectual achievement, so they still expected Sylvia to make a great
-match.
-
-At last, fifteen years after Skelton had left Deerchase, he returned to
-it as suddenly as he left it. He brought with him Bob Skinny, who had
-become a perfect monster of uppishness, airs, and conceit; Bulstrode,
-who was understood to be a remarkable scholar and Skelton’s assistant
-in preparing the great work that was to revolutionise the world; and
-Lewis Pryor, a black-eyed boy whom Skelton represented to be the
-orphan child of a friend of his, a professor at Cambridge. People were
-still talking about Skelton’s wonderful promise. He was then getting
-on towards forty years old, and had not written a line since “Voices
-of the People.” The subject he was engaged upon for his wonderful
-forthcoming book was not precisely known, but it was understood to be a
-philosophical work, which would not leave the Christian religion a leg
-to stand upon.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI.
-
-
-When Skelton’s arrival was known it made a tremendous sensation. Mrs.
-Blair turned a beautiful rosy red when Blair brought the news home. At
-thirty-five she was still girlish-looking, and her dark eyes were as
-bright as ever.
-
-“Ah, my girl,” cried Blair, with his offhand tenderness, “Skelton has
-never forgiven me for getting ahead of him with you; but if he had got
-ahead of me--why, damme, I’d have broken his neck for him long before
-this!”
-
-Sylvia Shapleigh felt a little ashamed, as she always did at the
-mention, or even the mere thought, of Skelton--she had been such
-a very, very great fool! and she had a lively apprehension of her
-mother’s course upon the occasion, which was fully justified by events.
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh,” began Mrs. Shapleigh one evening, the very first week
-after Skelton’s arrival at Deerchase, “you will have to go and call
-upon Richard Skelton, for it would break my heart if I did not see some
-of those elegant things he has brought home in that pile of boxes that
-came up from the wharf to-day.”
-
-“Certainly, my love, I shall call to see him. As his former guardian,
-I feel it incumbent; but, really, the fellow always interested me, for
-all his confounded supercilious airs.”
-
-“Well, Mr. Shapleigh, you seem to have altogether forgotten his
-treatment of Sylvia; and that English wife of his put it out of his
-power to marry again, just to spite my poor child.”
-
-Luckily Sylvia was out of the room during this; but just then she
-entered, with a book in her hand, and seated herself at the round
-mahogany table in the corner of the room, upon which a tall lamp burned
-with shaded softness. Mrs. Shapleigh wisely dropped that branch of the
-subject when Sylvia appeared.
-
-“Anyhow, Mr. Shapleigh,” resumed Mrs. Shapleigh, “we shall be obliged
-to ask Richard Skelton to dinner. We can’t get out of _that_.”
-
-“Very well, my darling love, we will have Skelton to dinner.”
-
-“But, Mr. Shapleigh, how can we possibly have Richard Skelton to
-dinner, when he is accustomed to so much elegance abroad? And although
-we live as well as any people in the county, yet it is nothing to what
-he will have at Deerchase.”
-
-“Then, my life, we won’t have Skelton to dinner.”
-
-“Now, Mr. Shapleigh, how you talk! You contradict yourself at every
-other word.--Sylvia, what have you to say on the subject? I declare,
-you read so much you don’t know anything. The simplest thing seems to
-puzzle you.”
-
-“Not at all, mamma!” cried Sylvia, with spirit, and bringing her book
-together with a clap. “Have Mr. Skelton to dinner, by all means--just
-as we would have the Blairs, or any other of the neighbours. I don’t
-care a fig for his elegance. We are just as good as the Skeltons any
-day; and any one of us--papa, or you, or I--is twice as good-looking as
-Mr. Skelton.”
-
-Sylvia was fond of disparaging Skelton both to herself and to other
-people.
-
-“Sylvia! Sylvia, my child!” screamed Mrs. Shapleigh; “your vanity is
-very unladylike, and, besides, it is sinful, too. Nobody ever heard
-_me_ say such a thing, although I had a much greater reputation for
-good looks than you ever had. But if my glass pleased me, _I_ never
-said anything.”
-
-“You very seldom say anything, my love,” remarked old Tom, quite
-gravely.
-
-“Well, Mr. Shapleigh, I hope the next time you get married you will
-marry a loquacious woman, and then, perhaps, you’ll long for your poor,
-dear, humble Belinda. But to get back to the dinner. Of course, we must
-have everything just as nearly like the way they have it at Deerchase
-as possible, although how on earth we can have things the least like
-they do at Deerchase, even if I put out every piece of glass and
-silver I have in the world, is more than I can tell. But whom shall we
-ask? That queer person that Richard Skelton brought home to write his
-book--Mr. Bulstrode?”
-
-“Yes, by all means,” cried old Tom, grinning. “He looks to me likely to
-be an ornament to society.”
-
-“And Mr. and Mrs. Blair?”
-
-“Exactly, my love. Blair and Skelton hate each other like the devil;
-and Mrs. Blair jilted Skelton, and I daresay has been sorry for it ever
-since. Oh, yes, we’ll have the Blairs, madam.”
-
-“And Mr. Conyers?”
-
-“Gadzooks, madam, you’re a genius! Skelton doesn’t believe in hell in
-the next world, and Conyers is trying to make a little hell of his own
-in Abingdon parish; so they will do excellently well together.”
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh, you don’t mean to tell me that Richard Skelton doesn’t
-_believe in hell_?” asked Mrs. Shapleigh in a shocked voice.
-
-“I do, indeed, my sweet. I’m not sure that he believes in a personal
-devil, or the horns and the hoofs, or even the tail.”
-
-“Good gracious, Mr. Shapleigh!” cried Mrs. Shapleigh in much horror and
-distress. “If Mr. Skelton doesn’t believe in a hell, we might as well
-give up asking him to dinner, because the bishop is coming next month,
-and he’ll be certain to hear of it; and what will he say when he hears
-that we have been entertaining a person like Richard Skelton, who flies
-in the face of everything the bishop says we ought to believe!”
-
-Mr. Shapleigh shook his head with waggish despair, and declared
-the dinner was out of the question. This, of course, renewed Mrs.
-Shapleigh’s determination to have it, who reflected that, after all,
-the bishop might not hear of it, or perhaps he might die before his
-annual visitation came off--she had heard he had something the matter
-with his liver, anyhow.
-
-Sylvia listened to the discussion calmly--she was used to this kind
-of thing; and as her father and mother never grew at all angry in
-these matrimonial tiffs, she did not mind them, having had a lifetime
-to become accustomed to them. But she felt acutely anxious about
-meeting Skelton, and, in a feminine way, about the dinner. She wanted
-everything to go off well, but with a person as wonderful as Mrs.
-Shapleigh, it was not safe to count on anything.
-
-In due time old Tom called at Deerchase, and was received by Skelton
-with more courtesy and deference than ever before in his life. Skelton
-met him in the library--a part of the building erected the first year
-after Skelton left Princeton. It was a noble room, and from the floor
-to the lofty ceiling were books, books, books. Old Tom had never seen
-so many books together in his life before.
-
-Skelton had changed but little. As a young man he had looked
-middle-aged; as a middle-aged man he looked young. His hair had a few
-grey threads in it, and Mrs. Shapleigh’s eager eye discovered a small
-place on the top of his head, about as big as a half dollar, where the
-hair was getting thin; but it took Mrs. Shapleigh to find this out--Mr.
-Shapleigh didn’t observe it at all. Skelton’s only remarkable feature
-were his eyes, which were as black and soft and fascinating as ever.
-His manner had lost all of its early superciliousness--he knew too
-much then to be anything but simple and unassuming. But undoubtedly
-there was something imposing in his personality. He greeted old Tom
-cordially, and inquired after Mrs. Shapleigh and little Sylvia.
-
-“You mean tall Sylvia, I presume,” said old Tom, laughing. “She is
-nearly as tall as I am, and deucedly pretty, if I have any eyes.
-Pardon an old man’s fondness, Skelton.”
-
-“No apology is needed. I am sure she is a lovely young woman; but I
-begin to realise how many milestones I have passed when I think of her
-as a woman grown.”
-
-“She’s more than grown; she has been of a marriageable age for some
-years--but a proud creature she is. She gives all sorts of flippant
-reasons for refusing good matches; but the fact is, nobody is quite
-good enough for her ladyship--so Sylvia thinks.”
-
-“A proud, pretty creature she gave promise of being. However, we can’t
-understand them--the simple creature, man, is no match for the complex
-creature, woman.”
-
-“O Lord, no!” Mr. Shapleigh brought this out with great emphasis,
-having in mind Mrs. Shapleigh and what he had heard of Skelton’s late
-wife, who had put the very most effectual barrier he knew against her
-husband’s marrying again.
-
-“But now, Skelton,” continued Mr. Shapleigh, earnestly, “we are looking
-forward to that something great which you are destined to do. No man I
-know of--including those fellows Burke and Sheridan--ever gave greater
-promise than you. By George! I shall never forget to my dying day the
-state of public feeling after the publication of that first pamphlet of
-yours. You would have been nominated to Congress by acclamation had you
-been twenty-one years old.”
-
-A flush rose in Skelton’s dark face. That early triumph had been the
-bugbear of his whole life.
-
-“I regard that as a very crude performance,” he said curtly.
-“It happened to have a peculiar aptness--it struck a particular
-conjunction. That was the real reason of its success.”
-
-“Then do something better,” cried old Tom.
-
-“I hope to, some day,” answered Skelton.
-
-They were sitting in the embrasure of the library window. It was in a
-glorious mid-summer, and the trees wore their greenest livery.
-
-The bright pink masses of the crape myrtle trees glowed splendidly,
-and at the foot of the large lawn the broad, bright river ran laughing
-in the sun. The yellow noonday light fell directly upon Skelton’s
-face--his olive complexion, his clear-cut features; there was not an
-uncertain line in his face. His lean, brown, sinewy hand rested on
-the arm of his chair. Old Tom, facing him, was a complete contrast--a
-keen-eyed man, for all he was a country squire, his fresh, handsome old
-face shining above his ruffled shirt-front and nankeen waistcoat.
-
-“You’ve got a pretty good array of literary fellows about you,” said
-old Tom, waving his stick around the library, which not even the July
-sun could make bright, but which glowed with the sombre beauty that
-seems to dwell in a true library.
-
-“Yes,” answered Skelton, “but I have an old fellow that is worth all
-the books to me--Bulstrode; he is a Cambridge man--carried off honours
-every year without turning a hair, and was classed as a wonder. But,
-you know, when God makes a genius he spoils a man. That’s the way with
-Bulstrode. He’s a perfectly worthless dog as far as making a living
-and a respectable place in society goes. He is simply a vulgarian
-pumped full of knowledge and with the most extraordinary powers of
-assimilation. He can’t write--he has no gift of expression whatever.
-But I can give him ten words on a slip of paper, and in half an hour he
-can give me every idea and every reference upon any possible subject
-I demand. He is not a bad man; on the contrary, he has a sort of rude
-honour and conscience of his own. He refused orders in the English
-Church because he knew himself to be unfit. Besides looking after my
-books, he is tutor to Lewis Pryor, the son of an old friend and tutor
-of mine, the Rev. Thomas Pryor.”
-
-Skelton brought all this out in his usual calm, easy, man-of-the-world
-manner. At that moment the boy passed across the lawn very close to
-the window, where he stopped and whistled to his dog. Never were two
-pairs of eyes so alike as Skelton’s and this boy’s. Old Tom, turning
-his glance from the boy to Skelton, noticed a strange expression of
-fondness in Skelton’s eyes as he looked at the boy.
-
-“A very fine-looking youngster,” said old Tom. “What are you going to
-do with him?”
-
-“Educate him,” answered Skelton, the indifference of his tone flatly
-contradicting the ineffably tender look of his eyes. “Bulstrode was
-made his guardian by one of those freaks of dying people. Pryor knew
-Bulstrode as well as I do, and he also knew that I would do a good part
-by the boy; but for some reason, or want of reason, he chose to leave
-the boy in Bulstrode’s power. However, as Bulstrode is in my power, it
-does not greatly matter. The boy has a little property, and I intend
-giving him advantages. His father was a university man, and Lewis shall
-be too.”
-
-“I am afraid you will find the county dull after your life abroad,”
-said old Tom, abruptly quitting the subject of Lewis Pryor.
-
-“Not at all. I have felt for some years the necessity of settling down
-to work, if I ever expect to do anything. Travelling is a passion
-which wears itself out, just as other passions do. I can’t understand
-a man’s expatriating himself forever. It is one of the benefits of a
-landed gentry that the soil grasps it. Nothing has such a hold on a man
-as land. It is one of the good points of our system. You see, I now
-admit that there is something good in our system, which I denied so
-vehemently before I was old enough to vote.”
-
-“Yes,” answered Mr. Shapleigh. “Land, land, land! That’s the cry of the
-Anglo-Saxon all over the world. That’s why it is they are the dominant
-people; that’s why it is that they cannot exist on terms of equality
-with any other race whatever.”
-
-“True,” said Skelton. “All races that come in contact with them are
-held in bondage of some sort. Rule or ruin is the destiny of the
-Anglo-Saxon everywhere.”
-
-Skelton had not asked a single question about anybody in the county.
-This did not surprise old Tom, who was prepared to tell him a great
-deal had Skelton manifested the slightest curiosity. When he rose
-to go Skelton very civilly and gracefully thanked him for his care
-and guardianship, and made some slight, laughing apology for his own
-insubordination.
-
-“No thanks at all--no thanks at all are due,” answered old Tom
-jovially. “I rather enjoyed managing such a property, and I flatter
-myself it did not decrease in my hands. As for managing you--ha! ha!--I
-admit _that_ was a flat failure. So you brought back that black rascal,
-Bob Skinny?”
-
-“Oh, yes; and I daresay some fine morning the other negroes will take
-him out and hang him to a tree outside my bedroom window. The fellow
-is perfectly intolerable--can find nothing good enough for him at
-Deerchase. He is a natural and incorrigible liar; and, worse still, he
-has learned to play on what he calls the ‘fluke,’ and between playing
-the ‘fluke,’ and telling unconscionable lies about his travels, he is
-a nuisance. The housekeeper told me, this morning, there would be a
-mutiny soon among the house servants if Bob wasn’t suppressed. But the
-dog knows his value to me, and presumes upon it, no doubt.”
-
-Then came the invitation to dinner at Belfield, which Skelton accepted
-politely, but he would do himself the honour to call on Mrs. Shapleigh
-and his little friend Sylvia beforehand.
-
-The call was made, but neither of the ladies was at home. A day or two
-after, old Tom Shapleigh had occasion to go on an errand about their
-joint water rights, to Deerchase, and Mrs. Shapleigh went with him.
-Then, too, as by a singular fate, Skelton was out riding about the
-plantation. But Bulstrode and Lewis happened to be in the hall, and
-Mrs. Shapleigh, who was dying with curiosity, alighted and went in on
-their invitation.
-
-Old Tom immediately began to talk to Bulstrode, while Mrs. Shapleigh
-bestowed her attentions on Lewis, much to his embarrassment. Suddenly,
-in the midst of the murmur of voices, Mrs. Shapleigh screeched out:
-
-“La!”
-
-“What is it, my dear?” asked old Tom, expecting to hear some such
-marvel as that the floor was beautifully dry rubbed, or that Skelton
-had cut down a decaying cedar near the house.
-
-“Did you ever see such a likeness as that between this boy and that
-picture of Richard Skelton’s father over yonder?”
-
-Every eye except Lewis’s was turned towards the portrait. Skelton had
-had all of his family portraits touched up by a competent artist, who
-had practically done them over. The portrait was of a boy dressed in
-colonial costume, with his hair falling over a wide lace collar. He was
-about Lewis’s age, and the likeness was indeed extraordinary. It was
-hung in a bad light though, and if it had been designed to keep it out
-of sight its situation could not have been better.
-
-Bulstrode glanced quickly at Lewis. The boy’s eyes were bent upon the
-ground and his whole face was crimson. Old Tom was glaring at Mrs.
-Shapleigh, who, however, prattled on composedly:
-
-“Of course, I recollect Mr. Skelton very well; but as he was at least
-thirty before I ever knew him, he had outgrown those clothes, and
-looked a good deal more than fifteen or sixteen. But it is certainly
-the most wonderful--”
-
-“My love,” cried old Tom in a thundering voice, “look at those Venetian
-blinds. If you’d like some to your drawing-room I’ll stand the expense,
-by Gad!”
-
-This acted on poor, good Mrs. Shapleigh’s mind like a large stone laid
-before a rushing locomotive. It threw her completely off the track,
-and there was no more danger of her getting back on it. But Bulstrode
-observed that Lewis Pryor did not open his mouth to say another word
-during the rest of the visit. As soon as the Shapleighs left, Lewis
-took his dog and disappeared until late in the afternoon. When he came
-in to dinner he avoided Bulstrode’s eyes, and looked so woe-begone
-that Bulstrode felt sorry for him. However, Skelton knew nothing of
-all this, and it so happened that he did not meet the Shapleighs,
-or, indeed, any of the county people, until the day of the dinner at
-Belfield. Blair meanwhile had called too, but, like the Shapleighs, had
-found Skelton out on the plantation, and eagerly professed to be unable
-to wait for his return home; so that the day of the dinner was the
-first time that the Shapleighs, or, indeed, any of the county people,
-had seen Skelton.
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh had heard that Skelton dined late, so she named six
-o’clock for the dinner--a perfectly preposterous hour at that period of
-the nineteenth century. She also managed to have three men to wait at
-dinner by pressing into the service James, the coachman and gardener.
-James was an inky-black object, who, with a pair of large white cotton
-gloves on, was as helpless as a turtle on his back. However, Mrs.
-Shapleigh was a first-class housekeeper, and the dinner was sure to
-be a good one--so Sylvia comforted herself. Skelton quite truthfully
-said it was the best dinner he had seen since he left Virginia--turtle
-soup, oysters in half a dozen ways, a royal display of fish, a saddle
-of venison, wild ducks and woodcock and partridges, a ham cured with
-hickory ashes and boiled in two quart bottles of old Tom Shapleigh’s
-best champagne. There were, besides, a great many and-so-forths, but
-Skelton did not say that he enjoyed the dinner particularly, and so
-saved his reputation for truth.
-
-As a matter of fact, he regarded it as something worse than a bore. He
-shrewdly suspected that Elizabeth Blair would be there, and it would be
-his first meeting with her after that awkward little _contretemps_ of
-so many years ago--for he had managed to avoid her during that solitary
-year he spent at Deerchase. In fact, everybody invited to the dinner
-was in more or less trepidation.
-
-Skelton arrived punctually at six o’clock, and Bulstrode was with
-him. Everybody else, though, had taken six o’clock to mean half-past
-five, and were promptly on hand. It was not quite dusk, and the purple
-twilight was visible through the open windows, but the wax candles were
-lighted and glowed softly in the mellow half-light.
-
-Old Tom greeted Skelton cordially, and so did Mrs. Shapleigh, who had
-temporarily buried the hatchet, and who comforted herself by thinking
-how awfully sorry Skelton would be that he couldn’t marry Sylvia when
-he saw her and heard her play on the guitar and sing. Mrs. Shapleigh
-herself was still beautiful; the face that had blinded old Tom thirty
-years before to the infinite silliness of the woman who owned it had
-not lost its colour or regularity. But its power to charm faded with
-its first youth. Stranger than the power of beauty is the narrow
-limits to which it is restricted. These ideas passed through Skelton’s
-mind as he saw Mrs. Shapleigh the first time in fifteen years. Sylvia,
-though, without one half her mother’s beauty, possessed all the charm
-and grace the older woman lacked. Skelton glanced at her with calm
-though sincere approval. She was very like the little girl who had
-swung her white sunbonnet at him, although he knew she must be quite
-twenty-seven years old; but in her grey eyes was a perpetual girlish
-innocence she could never lose. Then came the difficult part--speaking
-to Mr. and Mrs. Blair. Mrs. Blair complicated the situation by blushing
-suddenly and furiously down to her white throat when Skelton took her
-hand. Skelton could cheerfully have wrung her neck in rage for her
-blushing at that moment. She was changed, of course, from seventeen,
-but Skelton thought her rather improved; she had gained colour
-and flesh without losing her slenderness. Jack Blair had got very
-middle-aged looking, to Skelton’s eyes, and his youthful trimness and
-slimness were quite gone; but nobody had found it out except Skelton.
-Then there was the long, thin parson with the troubled eyes. Bulstrode
-was as awkward as a walrus in company, and glanced sympathetically at
-James, black and miserable, whose feelings he quite divined.
-
-Sylvia in the course of long years had been forced to acquire quite
-an extraordinary amount of tact, in order to cover the performances
-of Mrs. Shapleigh, and she found she had use for all of it. Mrs.
-Shapleigh, however, was completely awed by the deadly civility with
-which Skelton received all of her _non sequiturs_, and soon relapsed
-into a blessed silence.
-
-This gave Sylvia a chance to take Skelton off very dexterously in a
-corner.
-
-“I am so glad to see Deerchase inhabited again,” she said in her pretty
-way. “It is pleasant to see the smoke coming out of the chimneys once
-more.”
-
-“It is very pleasant to be there once more,” answered Skelton. “After
-all, one longs for one’s own roof. I did not think, the afternoon you
-paid me that interesting visit, that fifteen years would pass before I
-should see the old place again.”
-
-“Ah, that visit!” cried Sylvia, blushing--blushing for something of
-which Skelton never dreamed. “I daresay you were glad enough to get rid
-of me. What inconceivable impertinence I had!”
-
-“Is the crab’s bite well yet?”
-
-“Quite well, thank you. And have you remembered that all these years?”
-
-“Perfectly. I never had such a startling adventure with a young lady
-before or since.”
-
-There is something peculiarly charming in the simplicity of people who
-are something and somebody in themselves. Sylvia realized this when she
-saw how Skelton’s way of saying ordinary things lifted them quite above
-the ordinary.
-
-How easy and natural he made it all! she thought. And she had expected
-the great, the grand, the wonderful Skelton to talk like one of Mr.
-Addison’s essays. What a thing it was to travel and see the world, to
-be sure! That was why Skelton was so easy, and put her so much at ease
-too.
-
-Skelton, meanwhile, was in no enviable frame of mind. Elizabeth
-Blair’s presence brought back painful recollections. He remembered some
-foolish threats he had made, and he thought, with renewed wonder and
-disgust, how he had walked the library floor at Deerchase, night after
-night, in frightful agitation, afraid to look toward the table drawer
-where his pistols lay for fear of the horrible temptation to end it
-all with a pistol shot. She was a sweet enough creature, but no woman
-that ever lived was worth half the suffering he had undergone for her.
-After all, though, it was not so much regret for her as it was rage
-that another man should supplant him. The same feeling waked suddenly
-and powerfully within his breast. He had always despised Blair, and he
-found the impulse just as strong as ever--a fellow who spent his days
-galloping over fields and bawling after dogs preferred to him, Richard
-Skelton! Nevertheless, he went up and talked pleasantly and naturally
-to Elizabeth, and inquired, as in duty and politeness bound, after
-the whole Armistead tribe. Elizabeth was the only one of them left,
-and Skelton listened gravely while she told him freely some family
-particulars. He had heard of Hilary and little Mary, and expressed a
-wish that Hilary should be friends with his own _protégé_, Lewis Pryor.
-He carefully repeated what he had told Mr. Shapleigh about Lewis; but
-Mrs. Blair said no word of encouragement, and then dinner was ready,
-and Skelton went out with Mrs. Shapleigh on his arm.
-
-Sylvia, from motives of prudence, placed herself next him on the other
-side. Having a humorous knack, Sylvia could very often turn Mrs.
-Shapleigh’s speeches into the safe channel of a joke. At the other end
-of the table old Tom had beside him Mrs. Blair, who was quite a pet of
-his. Skelton, with infinite tact, talked as if he had been one of them
-for the last fifteen years, instead of having been indulging in all
-sorts of startling adventures abroad while they were vegetating in the
-country.
-
-The conversation pretty soon got on racing, for the Campdown course was
-to them their opera, drive, lecture, concert--everything, in short,
-except the church. Conyers was quite out of this conversation, and
-was used to being so. Bulstrode likewise found it a bore, and took
-refuge in gulping down glass after glass of sherry, port, madeira,
-champagne--any and every thing that came to hand. But he did not enjoy
-it, although old Tom’s cellar was not to be despised. He feared and
-revered a good woman, and the presence of the ladies took all the
-taste out of the wine and utterly disconcerted him. He had often said
-to Skelton: “Curse me, if I can drink comfortably in the presence of
-women. They are a standing rebuke to such old ruffians as I.” Skelton,
-however, entered into the spirit of the racing talk as if it were of
-the greatest possible moment. But it was a very delicate one in Blair’s
-presence. Too often had Skelton’s colours--black and yellow--come
-in ahead of Blair’s blue jackets and white caps. Skelton and Blair,
-though, each showed a gentlemanly obliviousness of all this.
-
-Skelton, however, chose to admire a certain colt of old Tom Shapleigh’s
-in a way that made Blair prick up his ears.
-
-“I was walking across your pasture the other day--trespassing, in fact,
-as I have half forgotten my own land--when I saw that black horse of
-yours--”
-
-“Alabaster!” cried Sylvia. “He is so black that I could not find a name
-black enough for him, so I went by the rule of contrary. He is to be my
-riding horse.”
-
-“Yes,” groaned old Tom ruefully, “Sylvia says she will have him. He
-isn’t a full thoroughbred, but he has some good blood in him, and I
-wanted to sell him to somebody, like our friend Blair here, who would
-find out how much speed there is in him, for he has it unquestionably.
-But he pleases my girl, and she proposes to keep me out of a snug sum
-of money in order that she may have a fine black horse to ride. Zounds!
-Skelton, I’m the most petticoat-ridden man in this county.”
-
-“No horse is too good for Miss Shapleigh,” answered Skelton, with
-gallantry; “but if she could be persuaded that another horse, with a
-coat as smooth and a tail as long as Alabaster’s, could carry her, I
-should like to see a match between him and that long-legged bay of
-mine--Jaybird, I believe, is his name.”
-
-Now Jaybird was the gem of Skelton’s stable, and had beaten everything
-against which she had been matched since her _début_, so that to say
-that Alabaster possibly had too much foot for her, at once put the
-black horse in the category of great horses.
-
-“If you can persuade Sylvia to let me sell him, I’d be delighted,” said
-old Tom, with his cheery laugh; “but I’ll not answer for your success
-with her. Women are mysterious creatures, my dear Skelton.”
-
-“Undoubtedly they are,” replied Skelton gravely. “Miss Shapleigh
-wants Alabaster because she wants Alabaster. Nothing could be more
-conclusive.”
-
-“You are quite right,” said Sylvia airily; “and when we cease to be
-mysterious and inconsequent we shall cease to charm.”
-
-“Whateley, the old dunderhead, says,” began Bulstrode in his deep, rich
-voice, and with perfect seriousness, “that women are always reaching
-wrong conclusions from the right premises, and right conclusions from
-the wrong premises”; at which everybody laughed, and Sylvia answered:
-
-“Then, as our premises are always wrong, our conclusions must be always
-right. Mr. Skelton, I shall keep Alabaster.”
-
-“And my horse, Jaybird, will keep his reputation,” said Skelton, with
-his slight but captivating smile.
-
-The instant Skelton said this Blair was possessed with the desire to
-own Alabaster. The idea of such a horse being reserved for a girl’s
-riding! It was preposterous. Racing in those days was by no means
-the fixed and formal affair it is now. It was not a business, but a
-sport, and as such each individual had great latitude in the way he
-followed it. Matches were among the commonest as well as among the most
-interesting forms it took, and a match between Jaybird and Alabaster
-struck Blair as of all things the most desirable; and in an instant
-he resolved to have Alabaster, if the wit of man could contrive it.
-He would show old Tom the weakness, the wickedness, of his conduct
-in letting himself be wrapped around Sylvia’s little finger in that
-way, and, if necessary, he would try his persuasive powers on Sylvia
-herself. Women were not usually insensible to his cajolery.
-
-None of the women at the table took much interest in the talk that
-followed. Mrs. Blair saw instinctively that Blair’s passion for horses
-was being powerfully stimulated by Skelton’s presence and talk about
-the Campdown course, which she secretly considered to be the bane
-of her life. But she was too proud to let any one--Skelton least of
-all--see how it troubled her. She even submitted to be drawn into the
-conversation, which the men at the table were too well bred to leave
-the women out of, for by little references and joking allusions they
-were beguiled into it. Blair teased Sylvia about her unfailing faith
-in a certain bay horse with a long tail, on account of which she had
-lost sundry pairs of gloves. Mrs. Shapleigh reminded Mr. Shapleigh of
-a promise he had made her that she should one day drive four horses to
-her carriage.
-
-“I said four horses to your hearse, my dear,” cried old Tom. “I always
-promised you the finest funeral ever seen in the county, and, by Jove,
-you shall have it if I have to mortgage every acre I’ve got to do it!”
-
-“Old wretch!” whispered Elizabeth to Mr. Conyers, while Jack Blair
-called out good-naturedly:
-
-“I swear, if you hadn’t the best wife in the world, you would have been
-strangled long years ago.”
-
-“I daresay I would,” answered old Tom frankly. In those robust days
-gentlemen used stronger language than in the present feeble time, and
-nobody was at all shocked at either Mr. Shapleigh’s remark or Jack
-Blair’s commentary. There was a jovial good humour about old Tom
-which took the sting out of his most outrageous speeches. But as the
-talk about racing flowed on, Elizabeth Blair grew paler and paler.
-Jack Blair’s fever was upon him, and Skelton, whether consciously or
-not, was fanning the flame. Skelton said, in a very modest way--for
-he was too great a man in the community to need to be anything but
-modest--that his interests in racing being much greater than ever, as
-he was then on the spot, he should double his subscription to the club.
-As it was known that his subscription was already large, this created a
-flutter among the gentlemen.
-
-“Of course I can’t double _my_ subscription in the debonair manner of
-Mr. Skelton,” said Blair with an easy smile, “but I don’t mind saying
-that I shall raise it very considerably.”
-
-At that moment Mrs. Blair caught Skelton’s eyes fixed on her
-pityingly--so she imagined--and it spurred her to show him that she was
-not an object of commiseration, and that Jack Blair had no domestic rod
-in pickle for him on account of that last speech.
-
-“Now, if you change your mind,” she said playfully to her husband,
-“don’t lay it on your wife, and say she wouldn’t let you, for here I
-sit as meek as a lamb, not making the slightest protest against any of
-these schemes, which, however, I don’t pretend to understand in the
-least.”
-
-“My dear,” cried Blair, his face slightly flushed with wine and
-excitement, “don’t try to pretend, at this late day, that you do not
-dragoon me. My subjugation has been county talk ever since that night
-you slipped out of the garden gate and rode off with me in search of a
-parson.”
-
-A magnetic shock ran through everybody present at this. Blair, in
-saying it, glanced maliciously at Skelton. _That_ paid him back for
-Oriole beating Miss Betsy, and Jack-o’-Lantern romping in ahead of
-Paymaster, and various other defeats that his “horse or two” had met
-with from the black and yellow.
-
-In an instant the talk began again very merrily and promptly. Blair
-looked audaciously at his ease, but Skelton was not a whit behind him
-in composure. He turned, smiling, to Sylvia, and said:
-
-“How all this talk must bore you!”
-
-Sylvia felt furious with Blair. They had not asked Skelton there to
-insult him. Therefore she threw an extra softness into her smile, as
-she replied:
-
-“It is very nice to talk about something else occasionally. I long to
-hear you talk about your travels.”
-
-“My travels are not worth talking about,” answered Skelton in the same
-graceful way; “but I have some very pretty prints that I would like to
-show you. I hope you will repeat your interesting visit of some years
-ago to Deerchase--some time soon.”
-
-“You are cruel to remind me of that visit,” said Sylvia, with her
-most charmingly coquettish air. “I have the most painfully distinct
-recollection of it, even to finding fault with the little yellow room
-because it was not as fine as the rest of the house.”
-
-Skelton concluded that neither a course of travel, a system of
-education, nor a knowledge of the world were necessary to teach Miss
-Sylvia how to get into the good graces of the other sex. In the midst
-of it all, Bulstrode, who heard everything and was constitutionally
-averse to holding his tongue, whispered to Conyers:
-
-“That speech of Mr. Blair’s has ruined him--see if it has not”; while
-old Tom Shapleigh growled _sotto voce_ to himself, “This comes of the
-madam’s damnable mixing people up.”
-
-There was no more real jollity after this, although much affected
-gaiety; nor was the subject of racing brought up again. Presently
-they all went to the drawing-room, and cards and coffee were brought.
-In cutting for partners, Sylvia and Skelton played against Blair and
-Bulstrode. Everybody played for money in those days, and there were
-little piles of gold dollars by each player. Blair was a crack whist
-player, but luck was against him. Besides, he had had an extra glass
-or two of wine, and the presence of Skelton was discomposing to him;
-so, although the stakes were small, he managed to lose all the money he
-had with him. Sylvia could not but admire the exquisite tact with which
-the rich man accepted the winnings from the poor man. Skelton gave not
-the smallest hint that any difference at all existed between Blair and
-himself, and Blair lost his money with the finest air in the world.
-As for Skelton, he had always hated Blair, and that speech at dinner
-warmed his hatred wonderfully, for Skelton could forgive an injury, but
-not an impertinence. Any want of personal respect towards himself he
-ranked as a crime deserving the severest punishment.
-
-Towards eleven o’clock the party broke up. Blair had made a mortal
-enemy, he had drank too much wine, he had distressed his wife,
-offended his hosts, and lost all his money. Bulstrode and Conyers had
-been bored to death--Bulstrode because he was all for drink and the
-classics, Conyers because it was against his conscience to take part
-in jovial dinner parties. Skelton was furiously angry in spite of his
-invincible coolness and self-possession. Sylvia was vexed. Old Tom was
-sardonically amused. Only Mrs. Shapleigh congratulated herself, as the
-last carriage drove off, with:
-
-“Well, the dinner was a great success. I never saw people enjoy
-themselves more in my life!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII.
-
-
-The very first and most lasting impression made upon Lewis Pryor’s
-boyish mind was that a subtile difference existed between him and
-every other boy he had ever known in his life. At the first glance the
-difference would seem to have been altogether in Lewis’s favour, for he
-always had a plenty of pocket money, and a pony to ride, and a servant
-to wait on him; but, being a very healthy-natured, honest-hearted boy,
-he regarded these things with admirable indifference, and instinctively
-rated them at their true value, which was small. In fact, he came, in
-the course of his boyish experiences, to hate these distinctions in
-his favour, as he imagined sometimes that it accounted for the shyness
-of other boys towards him. From his very earliest recollection there
-had been this strange and mystifying avoidance, and the boy’s heart
-swelled and his eyes filled with tears whenever he thought of it. Not
-only was it strange, but it was cruelly undeserved, for he felt himself
-worthy of respect. He had never told a lie in his life, and such
-boyish naughtinesses as he had been guilty of were merely the ordinary
-lapses of impetuous young creatures. But poor Lewis was perforce a
-model boy, for it is tolerably hard for a boy to get in mischief by
-himself. Lewis, gazing with melancholy eyes at others of his own age,
-would feel, with a tightening at his heart, that he would cheerfully
-give his pony and all his fine belongings to be one with those merry,
-happy fellows. He remembered dimly his mother--a gentle creature who
-lavished tenderness upon him; his father--Thomas Pryor, the tutor--a
-tall, thin, spectacled man; and they all lived very quietly somewhere
-in the country in England. But even then he had no playmates. Then he
-remembered quite distinctly his father and his mother both dying, and
-Bulstrode and Bob Skinny being there and taking him to Skelton. Lewis
-was then about five years old. After that came a dreary existence of
-splendid suites of rooms in foreign hotels, where he and Bulstrode were
-usually waiting for Skelton and Bob Skinny to turn up, when they would
-all go on to some other splendid suite of rooms in another place, all
-equally dreary to the lonely boy. Bulstrode was his guardian, and was
-supposed to be his tutor, and Lewis did his lessons with tolerable
-regularity. But he had a little store of books--some old romances,
-dear to every boy’s heart, and some of Scott’s novels, which were
-coming out, and a few other imaginative books, which he devoured with
-insatiate delight. Sometimes, with one of these darling dog’s-eared
-volumes, he could be perfectly happy, lying on the rug before the fire,
-with his dog Service poking his cold nose affectionately into his face,
-or flat on his back in the summer time, with the dog on the grass
-near him, and the trees murmuring softly overhead. For want of other
-companionship he made a friend and confidant of Service; and the two
-would exchange queer confidences, and understood each other as only a
-boy and a dog can. But more than the dog--even more than his cherished
-romances--Lewis’s most beloved possession were certain books inscribed
-“Thomas Pryor, M. A.,” and a miniature of his father--a lanky person,
-as unlike Lewis’s dark, clear-cut little face as could be imagined--and
-a quaint picture in black and white of his mother. But he thought
-of her so often and so much that he had in his mind’s eye a perfect
-portrait of her. Bulstrode was always ready enough to talk to the boy
-about his father and mother, but Lewis soon found that Bulstrode’s
-talk amounted to nothing at all, as he had seen but little of either
-Mr. or Mrs. Pryor. As for Skelton, Lewis could not make him out. He
-was always kind, always indulgent, and Lewis was quite sharp enough
-to see that, however Bulstrode might be his guardian, Skelton had the
-real authority over both Bulstrode and himself. But there was a perfect
-formality between them. The boy remembered, though, once when he was
-ill, that Skelton scarcely left him day or night. He always dined with
-Skelton, and at dinner had one very small glass of wine, after which he
-might have been expected to leave the table. Occasionally after dinner
-Skelton would thaw, and would talk to the boy in a way that quite
-charmed him, telling him of Skelton’s own boyhood and his travels.
-When they came to Virginia, Lewis found the new country more like
-his faintly remembered English home than he could express, and was a
-thousand times happier than he had been in the splendid lodgings where
-so much of his boyhood had been passed. He liked much better riding
-over the country on his pony than taking a tiresome canter in a public
-park; Service and himself had much jollier times in the woods and
-fields than in prim city gardens. And then the negroes were so amusing,
-and called him “Little Marse” so obsequiously, and he had a boat to
-sail on the river. This last gave him the most acute and intense
-pleasure. Skelton, for the first time in his life, taught him something
-in teaching him to sail the boat.
-
-“Now, Lewis,” Skelton said, the first morning the boat was put into
-the water, “I foresee that you will live in this boat, and as you will
-no doubt be upset dozens of times, and be caught in squalls and all
-sorts of accidents, the only thing to do is to teach you to depend upon
-yourself. The river is not more than fifteen feet deep anywhere, except
-in the channel, and with ordinary intelligence and care nothing worse
-ought to happen to you than a good wetting once in a while. The boat
-is staunch. I myself watched Jim, the wheelwright, making it, and gave
-him the dimensions”--for the boat had been built at Deerchase--“and the
-sail is quite large enough for it”--Lewis did not agree with this last,
-as his ambition was to have the smallest boat and the biggest sail on
-the river--“and if you are drowned it will be your own fault.”
-
-Lewis was wonderfully apt at learning anything, and Skelton, in his
-quiet way, showed an excellent knack of teaching. Every day, for a
-week or more, the two were out in the boat together upon the bright
-river glowing in the August sunshine. Lewis often wondered if Skelton
-were not bored as they sailed up and down the river, and then beyond
-out into the bay, Skelton sitting in the stern, with a book in his
-hand, reading when he was not showing Lewis how to manage the boat.
-It puzzled the boy because there was usually such a distance, so much
-reserve between them. More than once Lewis caught Skelton’s black,
-expressive eyes fixed on him with a look that was almost fondness, and
-at such moments the boy’s heart would thrill with a strange emotion. He
-had often thought that he would ask Skelton some time about his father
-and mother, and what better opportunity could he have than when sailing
-together for hours upon the blue water? But he never did it. In spite
-of Skelton’s interest, and his evident desire to secure Lewis from
-danger by making him a good sailor, the barrier remained. In a very
-short while, though, Lewis mastered the whole science of a sailboat,
-with one exception. Nothing could induce him to take the sail down
-until a squall was actually upon him, and in consequence of this he got
-into the water several times unnecessarily. But he was a cool-headed
-fellow, and a good swimmer besides, so that his various upsets did him
-no harm. Skelton, on these occasions, would send for him and give him
-lectures upon his foolhardiness, which Lewis would receive respectfully
-enough, saying “Yes, sir,” every time Skelton paused. But when the
-door was closed Skelton would sigh, and smile too, and say to himself,
-“There is no frightening the fellow.”
-
-There was but one boy in the neighbourhood near Lewis’s age. This was
-Hilary Blair, a handsome, fair-haired, freckle-faced boy, who began
-the acquaintance with a sturdy contempt for Lewis’s prowess. Hilary
-was a year older than Lewis, and a heavier and stouter boy. But at the
-first personal encounter between the two young gentlemen, which was
-precipitated by a dispute over a game of marbles in the main road,
-Lewis showed so much science in the manly art, that Hilary was knocked
-out ignominiously about the fourth round. Hilary displayed excellent
-good sense in the affair. He got up with a black eye, but an undaunted
-soul.
-
-“Look here,” he said, “you’ve taken lessons of some sort.”
-
-“Yes,” responded Lewis, shamefacedly, remembering that he had had
-lessons of all sorts--boxing, fencing, dancing, riding, everything, in
-short--while this country gentleman’s son knew nothing of many of these
-things; “but if you want to, I’ll teach you all I know, and then”--here
-the fighting instinct in the boy cropped out--“I’ll lick you just as
-easy as I do now.”
-
-“I reckon you won’t,” answered Hilary coolly, and it turned out that
-he was right; for, with the addition of such scientific instruction
-as Lewis could impart, the two boys were very evenly matched in their
-future encounters, which were purely friendly and in the interests of
-sport.
-
-The boys became fond of each other in a surreptitious way, for Hilary
-never came to see Lewis, and an instinctive delicacy kept Lewis from
-going to Newington. But they met on the river, out fishing, and in the
-woods setting their hare-traps, and they exchanged whispers during
-church-time.
-
-On Sundays Lewis sat alone in one of the great square high-backed
-pews, which still remained in the old colonial church of Abingdon.
-That unlucky singularity of luxury which was the bane of poor Lewis’s
-life actually followed him to church, for Skelton’s was the only
-upholstered pew in the church; and instead of the faded moreen curtains
-of the other pews, when they were curtained at all, there was a fine
-purple-silk drapery, behind which the lonely boy sat forlornly. He was
-the only person who went to church regularly from Deerchase. Bulstrode
-scoffed at the notion, and Skelton alleged usually that he was too
-busy. Once in a great while, though, he would saunter into church about
-the second lesson. Conyers, who feared no man, not even Skelton, would
-stop deliberately in the midst of the sermon as a rebuke to Skelton.
-Skelton, however, would be perfectly unmoved by it, as well as by
-the hundreds of curious eyes bent upon him, and would walk down the
-aisle with his inimitable grace and a half-smile on his lips. Conyers,
-though, by that strange contrariety which seems to govern human
-affairs, found his best supporters in Skelton and Bulstrode, whom he
-expected to be his most powerful foes. So far from antagonising Conyers
-on account of the public rebuke administered upon his tardiness,
-Skelton respected him for it, and never failed to speak to the parson
-politely before all the people as they gossiped in the churchyard. It
-was not Skelton’s way to withhold the meed of justice due any man,
-and he saw at a glance that the stern, scruple-ridden, conscientious
-moralist had a very hard time with his merry, free-handed,
-pleasure-loving congregation--the pastor intolerant of pleasure, the
-flock intolerant of pain.
-
-As for Bulstrode, Conyers’s sad heart had glowed when he first heard
-of the advent of this great scholar in the county. Perhaps here was
-light at hand. But the very first sight of Bulstrode was enough for
-him. Bulstrode’s guzzling of liquor, his unbridled license of tongue,
-were repelling to a natural born ascetic and enthusiast. But Bulstrode
-was instantly attracted by the parson with the distressed eyes, which
-always seemed to be looking for something which they never could
-find. He pursued the acquaintance, and actually tracked Conyers to
-his lair in the tumble-down rectory. Here Bulstrode would sit for
-hours, clawing his unkempt hair, and drinking innumerable cups of
-tea out of a cracked teapot from sheer force of habit. He talked on
-every imaginable subject, and poured out the stores of his learning
-lavishly. But he never touched, in the remotest degree, upon religion.
-Conyers found out, though, that Bulstrode was deeply skilled in that
-science called theology, and at last the impulse came to unburden his
-mind and heart, which Bulstrode had long foreseen. They were sitting,
-one night soon after their acquaintance began, in the shabby rectory
-study, when Conyers made his confession--telling it all recklessly, his
-sallow face glowing, his deep eyes burning. Bulstrode heard patiently,
-even that greatest grievance of all to Conyers--the unwillingness of
-people to _think_ upon the great affair of religion, and their perfect
-willingness to accept anything rather than to bestow consideration or
-thought upon it.
-
-“And do you imagine,” asked Bulstrode gravely, stopping in the midst of
-his tea-drinking, “that religion is an intellectual exercise?”
-
-Poor Conyers admitted that he thought it had an intellectual side.
-
-“So it has, so it has; but it has a great emotional side too,” answered
-Bulstrode; “that’s where the women are nearer right than men think.
-The Christian religion undertakes to make a human being better, but it
-doesn’t pretend to make him wiser or happier--or only incidentally; so
-you see, it must work in the heart of man as in the brain. And I tell
-you, my clerical friend, that the great defect in all the other systems
-I’ve studied--and I know ’em all--is that they are meant for thinkers,
-and that leaves out nine tenths of the human race. The intellectual
-side of man’s relation to the Great First Cause was worked out long
-ago by those clever old Greeks. All these modern fellows have been
-threshing over old straw.”
-
-Conyers was surprised at this, and said so. It seemed to him that
-men who dared to meddle with so vast a subject must be of gigantic
-strength and heroic mould. Through the mists of his own ignorance and
-inexperience their figures loomed large, but when he expressed this in
-halting language, Bulstrode shouted with laughter.
-
-“You think a man must be a second Plato to start a new philosophic
-system--a new religion, in fact! Why, look you, parson, most
-undergraduates have doubts about a Great First Cause even; and there
-are monstrous few university men who don’t expect to make a new
-religion some time or other. They have the disease, like measles or
-whooping-cough, and get over it and are better afterwards.”
-
-Conyers had an idea that among men of true learning the Christian
-religion was treated as a lot of old women’s fables, while all systems
-of philosophy were regarded with the utmost respect. This, too, he
-expressed to Bulstrode.
-
-“Don’t know, I’m sure, how it is in this queer country,” answered
-Bulstrode, pouring himself out a ninth cup of tea, “but, comparing
-things according to their size, the biggest system is small compared
-with that enormous fact of Christianity. Mind, I ain’t a Christian
-myself, though I lean that way, and when I’m drunk and my mind works
-rapidly, and I see the relations of things better, I lean that way
-still more; for, know you, Wat Bulstrode drunk is a better man than Wat
-Bulstrode sober.”
-
-If this was meant as a hint for Conyers to produce something stronger
-than tea, it failed of its object, for not even to make Bulstrode
-talk like a Christian, would Conyers so far outrage his conscience
-as to give liquor to a man already too fond of it. Bulstrode really
-threw out the remark more as a test of the man than a hint, but when
-Conyers refused the bait a strange glitter came into Bulstrode’s dull
-eyes. Here was that honest man, whose untarnished integrity was like
-the sun at noonday. Bulstrode, in admiration for this, conceived the
-idea of establishing in Conyers a sincere belief of Christianity;
-for, half-educated, starved spiritually, and the prey of scruples
-that were really doubts, Conyers scarcely knew where he stood. So,
-then, the extraordinary spectacle was presented of a man little better
-than a heathen preaching the gospel to a man after God’s own heart.
-Bulstrode was fully sensible of the grotesqueness of the thing, but
-all disposition to laugh was checked by the sublime earnestness with
-which Conyers followed him. Bulstrode marshalled with singular power
-and precision all the arguments in favour of the immortality of the
-soul, beginning with Plato. He then argued profoundly and subtly in
-favour of a revealed religion. He pointed out all the weak spots in the
-various substitutes for religion that had been offered in various ages,
-and laid bare their defects mercilessly. He sat until late in the night
-talking, Conyers’s eyes all the time growing less and less sombre.
-
-“Now,” said Bulstrode, getting up toward midnight, “I’ve given you all
-the weapons I have, and taught you how to thrust and parry the best I
-know how; and, hang me, parson, I’ve almost argued myself into being a
-Christian too while I’ve been trying to convert you!”
-
-Conyers smiled involuntarily as he looked at Bulstrode. There was
-nothing apostolic in that bulky figure and careless, dissipated face.
-
-Bulstrode went back to Deerchase, and complained next morning that he
-had been kept up late the night before labouring with Conyers to make
-him a Christian.
-
-Conyers, however, felt that he had been more helped by this boozy
-heathen than by all the theologians he had ever met with in his life.
-
-Meanwhile Skelton and his affairs continued to be of prodigious
-interest among the county people, who regarded him as their local
-prodigy. There was, of course, great speculation about his wife’s
-fortune, and much indignation expressed that it could not be bestowed
-upon some of the numerous young women who would have presided so
-admirably at Deerchase. The universal conviction was that Skelton would
-never marry, but, in the strange event that he did, conjecture ran wild
-as to what would become of the money.
-
-Some said it went to found a great charity hospital somewhere; others,
-that it returned to the late Mrs. Skelton’s family; others still, that,
-Mrs. Skelton having quarrelled with her relations, they would get none
-of it, but that it would go to Skelton’s next of kin, which, wonderful
-to say, were Elizabeth Blair and her children; but everybody was agreed
-in thinking that, before Skelton would see the Blairs benefitted by
-him, he would turn his back on Helen of Troy could she come back to
-earth. However, the solution seemed far enough off. It was perfectly
-well known that the late Mrs. Skelton had put an embargo of some sort
-upon her place being filled, and they would have to wait until Skelton,
-who was in the perfection of physical health, should be laid in his
-grave before the mystery would be solved.
-
-Skelton had come home in the early summer, and, although he had been
-formally called upon by all the gentry in the county, including Blair,
-as soon as he arrived, and the visits had been returned, but little had
-been seen of him. Even when the autumn meeting of the Jockey Club had
-come off, and when all the people from four counties had assembled and
-Skelton’s horses had carried everything before them, Skelton himself
-had scarcely appeared on the course at all. The truth was he was
-making a desperate effort to work. He shut himself up every day in the
-library, and actually got some little way upon his Introduction, but
-in a very short while a strange and irritating torpor seized upon him
-mentally. He had no distractions--he had all his books close by him,
-his notes tabulated; the whole thing was ready to his hand. The hand,
-though, refused to work; the mind refused to drive the hand. Skelton
-found he did as little in the scholastic retirement which he had
-adopted as in the whirl of cities.
-
-He turned to racing as a faint and unsatisfying distraction. He had had
-the pleasure of beating Blair all along, even at the autumn meeting;
-he had had the savage enjoyment of knowing that Blair was as unlucky
-as usual when pitted against him. Skelton’s own secret dissatisfaction
-with himself fanned his resentment against Blair. He turned feverishly
-to the only thing that interested him--the determination to make Jack
-Blair know what it was to oppose Richard Skelton. Blair’s imprudent
-speeches, his constant reminders of the why and wherefore of Skelton’s
-rivalry, were not lost on him, and men of his type are always dangerous
-to trifle with.
-
-Skelton’s doubled subscription to the Jockey Club had had a wonderful
-stimulating effect upon that institution, and it also caused Mrs.
-Blair to sign her name to a bit of paper which enabled Blair to raise
-some money, not only for his own increased subscription, but for that
-horse of old Tom Shapleigh’s which Skelton himself had professed to be
-afraid of. If once a match could be brought about between Alabaster and
-Jaybird, Blair, who was irrepressibly sanguine, believed that he could
-wipe out all old scores between them. And, of course, he could buy the
-horse--old Tom had not seriously meant that Sylvia was to have for a
-riding nag a horse that could beat Jaybird. Blair thought that raising
-a certain sum of money, which was in effect an extravagant price, must
-certainly buy Alabaster. But he had to go through with some unpleasant
-processes before raising that money. He was terribly hard up at that
-time, and one of the most necessary conditions was the signing of his
-wife’s name to a bit of paper that to him represented Alabaster, money,
-coming out ahead of Skelton--everything, in short.
-
-When he went after Elizabeth to sign that paper she was sewing
-together the leaves of Hilary’s Latin grammar, and wishing she could
-buy some new books that the boy needed--for she taught him herself,
-under the womanly pretense that they might thereby save up money for
-his university expenses. But she knew in her heart of hearts that no
-money was saved or thought of being saved. Only her pride was saved
-by that subterfuge. The drawing-room at Newington where she sat was
-very unlike the splendid drawing-rooms at Deerchase or the gaudy
-show-rooms at Belfield. It was large, plain, and old-fashioned. The
-mahogany furniture was scanty, and the ornaments consisted of those
-daubs of family portraits which all Virginians possess. It was a
-gloomy afternoon early in October, and neither the room nor anything
-in it looked cheerful. Blair came in whistling, and stated the case to
-Elizabeth. As she had brought him no fortune, it seemed ungracious in
-her to refuse him that which was his own, but she thought of Hilary,
-and her heart sank. Nevertheless, she signed the paper with the quill
-pen that Blair cut for her with his penknife. When asking her to make
-the sacrifice for him he did not insult her by any endearments; there
-were certain fine points of delicacy about him which well pleased her
-woman’s soul. He profoundly respected the love between them, and would
-have scorned to use it directly as a means of wheedling anything out of
-her. But when her name was signed, he tipped her chin up and kissed her
-with ineffable tenderness.
-
-“By heaven, my girl,” he said, “you deserve a better husband than I
-have ever made you! But you could never find one that loves you half as
-much.”
-
-This gave Elizabeth a chance to air a grievance which she had been
-cherishing ever since the dinner at Belfield. Mrs. Blair was an
-uncommonly level-headed woman, and if any one had suggested a doubt
-of her husband to her, nothing could have exceeded her righteous
-resentment towards the suggestor. But there never had been a time
-in all their married life that Mrs. Blair had not fancied Blair’s
-admiration fixed upon some girl in the county, who nine times out of
-ten bored him to death, and Mrs. Blair was always ready with a few
-tears and a reproach or two on the subject of these imaginary injuries.
-
-“Yes,” she said, withdrawing with an offended air from his encircling
-arm, “you can say these things to me now, but ever since that night at
-Belfield, when you never took your eyes off Sylvia Shapleigh, you have
-been thinking a great deal too much about her.”
-
-“Elizabeth,” said Blair solemnly, “you are a fool,” and then he
-suddenly burst out laughing--a genuine laugh, inspired by the perfect
-absurdity of the thing.
-
-“And you won’t deny it?” asked Elizabeth, trying feebly to maintain her
-position.
-
-“Of course not,” answered Blair, becoming serious. “If you were a man
-I should knock you down. As you are a woman, I can’t, but I decline
-to take any notice of what you say. This is the seventeenth girl, I
-believe, that you have accused me of making eyes at.”
-
-Elizabeth condescended to smile at this, and harmony was in a fair way
-to be restored between them. But after a moment Elizabeth said:
-
-“There is something else, though, which troubled me that night. It was
-at the dinner table.”
-
-Blair knew in an instant that she meant his increased subscription to
-the Jockey Club, but he asked what she meant.
-
-“Can you ask me?” replied Elizabeth.
-
-“The devil I can,” cried Blair, dropping at once into the ordinary,
-every-day, vexed-husband’s tone. “Look here, Elizabeth, didn’t you
-encourage me?”
-
-“What could I do,” answered his wife with a piteous smile, “with
-Richard Skelton looking on and pitying me?”
-
-“And what could _I_ do, with Skelton challenging me in every tone of
-his voice and look of his eye? Don’t I know that Miles Lightfoot has
-got his orders to ruin me at any cost? And do you think that a man
-would quietly draw out and yield the field to another man under the
-circumstances? No, Elizabeth, I beat Skelton in the race for you, and
-I’ll beat him again on the Campdown course. And it isn’t so hard as
-you think. You know that black colt Alabaster, of old Tom Shapleigh’s?
-Well, that colt is more than three fourths thoroughbred--he has a
-strain of blood in him that goes straight back to Diomed. Now, that
-three fourths thoroughbred can beat any thoroughbred in Skelton’s
-stable; and Skelton himself said so in effect the night of that
-confounded dinner, and I’m going to have that horse. I shall have him
-with this money that you have enabled me to raise, and which I regard
-as a gift from you.”
-
-Blair kissed her again--he certainly knew how to express his thanks.
-Elizabeth had heard the story about Alabaster and Diomed before.
-
-“But I thought you said Mr. Shapleigh wouldn’t sell him?”
-
-“He _shall_ sell him, by George!” cried Blair violently, and bringing
-his fist down on the mantel. “Elizabeth, you can’t imagine how the
-desire to own that horse has taken possession of me. You make yourself
-jealous about a lot of pink-faced girls that I never looked at twice,
-and, if you only knew it, your real rival is Alabaster. I swear I am
-in love with that horse! I dream about him at night. I never saw such
-quarters in my life--so strong, so sinewy, yet so light! And in the
-daytime, as I ride by the pasture and see him roaming around, not half
-attended to, it maddens me that such a creature should not be more
-appreciated. If I had him I could pay off all the mortgages on this
-place. I could send Hilary to school, and have a governess for Mary.
-I could give you a new carriage, and, better than all, I could beat
-Skelton at his own game.”
-
-He spoke with a strange fierceness, he so debonair and full of
-careless good humor. Elizabeth looked at him in amazement. In all their
-fifteen years of married life she had never seen this trait in him.
-He was so intense, so wrought up over the horse, that she was glad it
-was only a horse that excited him. Suppose it had been one of those
-pink-faced girls that Blair spoke of so contemptuously, but who liked
-his dashing manners and captivating ways only too well, Mrs. Blair
-thought.
-
-“But suppose, for an instant, Mr. Shapleigh won’t sell him,” persisted
-Elizabeth.
-
-“But he _shall_ sell him!” shouted Blair for the second time. “What
-does he want with him--to drive him to old lady Shapleigh’s chaise?
-I assure you he talks about Sylvia’s wanting to keep the horse as a
-riding horse. It made me grind my teeth. It would be cruel--yes, cruel,
-Elizabeth, if I didn’t own that horse!”
-
-Elizabeth was startled; she said nothing more about Alabaster, and
-Blair went off with his hands in his pockets toward Belfield, and in
-a little while she saw him leaning on the fence that divided the two
-places, as the lands came together at the river, eying the black horse
-that browsed about in the pasture in the late October afternoon.
-
-The red-brown pasture-land glowed in the setting sun, and the masses
-of gorgeous sumac that bordered the field made great dashes of colour
-in the landscape. A worm fence divided the two plantations, and upon
-this fence Blair leaned, meditatively watching the horses as they
-champed about the field. Elizabeth, who was far-sighted, could see him
-perfectly well, his stalwart and somewhat overgrown figure outlined
-against the twilight sky. A negro boy came through the field whistling,
-and singing, to drive the horses into the stable lot at Belfield. He
-shied a stick at Alabaster to make him move on. At that Blair sprang
-over the fence, and, seizing the boy, shook him so violently that
-Elizabeth was frightened, thinking he might really be harmed by Blair
-in his rage.
-
-He came home moodily, and told Elizabeth that he believed he could kill
-any creature that hurt an animal as valuable as Alabaster. Elizabeth
-believed him, after what she had just seen.
-
-Next morning Blair went over to bargain for the horse. Old Tom was
-disinclined to sell, and as he talked Blair grew paler and paler. At
-last old Tom declared that Sylvia might decide. He had told her the
-horse was hers. He didn’t care for the money particularly, although the
-horse was certainly worth a good price, and was very speedy, but if
-Sylvia chose to part with him it was all right.
-
-Sylvia, on getting a message from her father, tripped down to the
-stable lot, where the two men were talking. The morning was warm and
-bright, even for the bright October season, and Sylvia wore a white
-dress and a large black hat. She had a wild-rose bloom in her cheek,
-and was altogether uncommonly pretty that morning. Blair was usually
-very observant and appreciative of women’s looks, but no woman that
-lived could have taken his attention off from Alabaster at that moment.
-Old Tom stated the case, and then walked away, laughing.
-
-“You and Sylvia settle it between you,” he cried. “If she chooses to
-sell him I’ll take what you offered me. If not, she wouldn’t let me
-sell him for the whole of Newington plantation.”
-
-“I wouldn’t either, if he were my property,” answered Blair, with a
-smile upon his handsome ruddy face that had, however, quite a strange
-look upon it.
-
-“Now, Miss Sylvia, can’t you let me have him?” he asked, as soon as old
-Tom was out of the way.
-
-Sylvia did not at all take in Blair’s intense desire to own the horse.
-“Why, Mr. Blair,” she said pettishly, “_I_ want the horse. He is a
-splendid riding horse, and I have looked forward to having him for such
-a long time.”
-
-Blair threw up his hands in a kind of despair. What creatures women
-were! Could they ever be made to understand the great affairs of life?
-Sylvia, who was quick of apprehension, caught in a moment the look
-which revealed an unsuspected turn in Blair’s character. His expression
-was desperate.
-
-“But--but--do you _want_ him very much?” suddenly asked Sylvia.
-
-“Want him!” cried Blair. “Great God!”
-
-Sylvia looked at him in dumb amazement. Blair’s features were
-working--he seemed to be asking for something as dear to him as his own
-children.
-
-“I don’t think you know how much I want this horse,” he said, with
-furious entreaty in his voice and his eyes. “This horse is worth
-everything to me, and without him life itself is worth nothing to
-me, because I am undoubtedly ruined unless I can get a horse to beat
-Skelton’s Jaybird. Alabaster can do it. I don’t know of any other horse
-that can. It is not only that I may recoup what I have lost--for I tell
-you I’d risk my own soul almost on Alabaster’s coming under the wire
-first with Jaybird--but there is feud between Skelton and me, feud such
-as you never dreamed of. I hate him, and he hates me.”
-
-Sylvia hesitated for a moment. Blair hung upon her words. She was
-serious enough now. Her lips moved once or twice as she patted the
-grass with her foot. Of course, it was all over, that childish romance
-about Skelton. She was now a young woman nearly out of her twenties,
-and he was nearing his fortieth birthday; and, besides, she had nothing
-to do with any rivalry on the turf between him and Mr. Blair, nor did
-she believe that Alabaster was as certain to carry everything before
-him as Blair thought. But--but--she recoiled from being the means of a
-possible defeat to Skelton. She knew well enough that there was great
-feeling on both sides in these matters between Blair and Skelton, and
-she knew Skelton to be unforgiving to the last degree. She raised her
-clear grey eyes to Blair’s face, but the expression on it made her
-turn a little pale. It was not only fiercely entreating, but it had
-a menace in it. Blair, indeed, felt a savage impulse to seize this
-slight creature and actually force her to let him have the horse. But
-the pity that dwells in every woman’s heart now rose in Sylvia’s. She
-felt so sorry for him--he had told her he would be ruined if he did not
-get Alabaster; so, after a few moments, painful on both sides, Sylvia
-suddenly held out her hand, and said:
-
-“Yes, you may have him.”
-
-Blair seized her hands and kissed them. His face changed to something
-like what it usually was. Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears; she
-realised that he was really ruined then, although Blair spoke of
-Alabaster as destined to prevent it. Blair was so eager, that he had
-to take the horse home with him. Sylvia walked slowly back to the
-house through the old-fashioned garden, while Blair, in triumph, rode
-home, leading his treasure. He made Hilary go with the horse to the
-stable, while he went in the house. He felt the need of rest--he, this
-great, strong country squire felt a nervous reaction after the singular
-excitement of the morning.
-
-“Elizabeth,” he said to his wife, “you accused me of looking at Sylvia
-Shapleigh too often. Let me tell you something. I never felt an impulse
-of violence towards a woman in my life until this morning. But when I
-saw her standing before me so unconcerned and smiling, and making up
-her mind so deliberately about the horse, I declare to you, I longed
-to--to seize her and throttle her until she came to her senses and
-agreed to let me have the horse. There is destiny in this. I wouldn’t
-so have longed for the creature if there were not something quite out
-of the usual run of events connected with him.”
-
-Elizabeth looked at her husband and said nothing. How unintelligible is
-human nature, after all! Here, this man, to whom she had been married
-fifteen years, suddenly developed an intensity, a savagery, that she
-had no more suspected than she suspected a whirlpool in the placid
-river that began its course up in the green marshes and made its broad
-and shallow way to the sea. And it came to her again and again, Suppose
-it had been not a horse, but a human being that had aroused this
-vehement desire of possession? It was enough to make her turn pale.
-
-“And,” continued Blair, with a smile that had something ferocious in
-it, “I shall beat Skelton again through a woman. Imagine, he might fall
-in love with Sylvia Shapleigh, and then find that she had furnished me
-with the means to be revenged on him! Perhaps Sylvia is in love with
-him, and that’s why she didn’t want to let me have the horse.”
-
-“But he can’t marry, you know, without giving up his wife’s fortune,
-and that he would be most unlikely to do,” said Elizabeth; and she
-adroitly got Blair off the subject of Skelton, and Skelton’s plans and
-his horses, and horses in general, and Alabaster in particular, on to
-some less exciting topic.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII.
-
-
-Sylvia went back into the house, troubled in mind, and all that day
-the thought followed her that she had probably brought about Skelton’s
-defeat by what she had done. There was no question of a match between
-Jaybird and Alabaster that autumn; but in the spring--however, much
-might happen in the meantime, for so Sylvia consoled herself, and
-heartily wished that Alabaster had never been seen or heard of.
-
-There had not been much intercourse between Belfield and Deerchase in
-the weeks that Skelton had been at home. He had promptly called after
-the dinner, and it was understood that he intended giving a large ball
-some time or other, but beyond a few of the gentlemen of the county
-nobody had been entertained by Skelton at all.
-
-Sylvia could not keep her eyes from wandering towards Deerchase, for
-Skelton was a man who always aroused interest, and then her tender
-woman’s heart was very soft towards Lewis Pryor.
-
-It was generally agreed that there was a mystery about the boy, and,
-for no better reason than this, his existence was ignored by the
-county gentry, who paid formal visits to Deerchase, but who did not
-take their sons with them if they happened to have boys of Lewis’s
-age. Sylvia saw him every day--sailing his boat on the river, fishing
-sometimes, or lying down under the trees with his dog--always alone.
-Once or twice she met him in the road and stopped and talked with
-him. The boy was won by her grace and charming manners, and admired
-her shyly while answering her questions, with his black eyes fixed on
-the ground. After meeting her two or three times he grew bolder, and
-actually one day left at Belfield a bouquet of golden rod, with his
-compliments scrawled in a large, boyish hand on a card. Mrs. Shapleigh,
-passing through the hall as Lewis, blushing very much, handed the
-bouquet in, seized upon it and carried it off in triumph to Sylvia.
-
-“Just look, my dear! No doubt it came from Richard Skelton, poor
-fellow! He is just eating his heart out because he can’t ask you to
-marry him, but still he likes to pay you these delicate attentions.
-Wild flowers, too--so much sentiment!”
-
-“Mamma,” said Sylvia sharply, “please be reasonable. Look at this: they
-are from Lewis Pryor, that black-eyed boy that is Mr. Bulstrode’s ward.”
-
-“And not from Richard Skelton! Dear, dear! Do throw the things out,
-Sylvia; they are not worth houseroom. And, my dear, there is some
-mystery about that boy, and you’d better not have anything to do with
-him.”
-
-“Poor little Lewis! The only mystery that I see about him is that he is
-young and lonely and wants friends. I never saw a more winning boy in
-my life.”
-
-Something in the gift touched Sylvia. She realised, with a smile, that
-Lewis had probably endured agonies of bashfulness before and after
-sending his bouquet. She wrote him a pretty little note, and sealed
-it with a motto such as was the fashion in those days. Bob Skinny
-presented the note that night at the dinner table to Lewis with a great
-flourish.
-
-“Miss Sylvia Shapleigh, sah, sont you dis heah billy-doo.” Bob Skinny
-had not been to Paris for nothing, and interlarded his conversation
-with such scraps of French as he could muster.
-
-Lewis, turning very red under Skelton’s eye, opened the note and read
-it, afterwards putting it into his pocket with studied carelessness.
-Glancing up, he saw Skelton’s gaze, usually so serious, fixed, half
-laughingly, upon him.
-
-“You have the advantage of me, Lewis,” said Skelton, smiling; “I have
-never been honoured with a note from Miss Shapleigh.”
-
-“Perhaps, sir,” answered Lewis, after a pause, “you never sent Miss
-Shapleigh any flowers.”
-
-Skelton was secretly delighted with the aptness of the boy’s reply, and
-remarked pleasantly:
-
-“That is true. You seem, however, to have got the start of me in that
-respect too.”
-
-Lewis, for the first time in his life before Skelton’s face, burst
-out laughing. Skelton started with surprise. He scarcely knew the
-boy possessed a laugh so fresh, so merry, so boyish. Then, blushing
-violently, Lewis relapsed into silence, but those few words and the
-laugh had in some way shown him that the barrier between Skelton and
-himself was not so icy after all.
-
-Bulstrode teased the boy unceasingly about his bouquet, but Lewis was
-not to be turned from his liking by teasing. Soon after the bouquet
-episode he wrote a note in his best hand and carefully copied from the
-Complete Letter-writer, inviting Sylvia to take a sail in his boat.
-Sylvia accepted, and the next morning she was promptly on hand as the
-boat touched the wharf at Belfield.
-
-Lewis was delighted. It was his first taste of responsibility, and the
-idea that this charming creature should trust herself with him in his
-boat seemed to make a man of him at once. Skelton, glancing out of
-the library window, saw Lewis sitting in the stern by Sylvia, who was
-steering, while Service, the dog, sat between them, his paws on Lewis’s
-knee.
-
-Sylvia might have brought her whole battery of charms to bear on
-Skelton with less effect than by her simple kindness to Lewis. Skelton
-watched them as the boat sailed gaily past in the dazzling morning, and
-something like a blessing on her stirred his heart. He did not wish to
-be with them; on the contrary, he felt that he could more indulge his
-pleasure at a distance than if he was present, but he felt a profound
-and tender gratitude to Sylvia for her kindness to the boy. In the same
-way he silently but bitterly resented Mrs. Blair’s not having once
-brought or sent Hilary to Deerchase.
-
-The next time he met Sylvia--which was when riding along the road one
-afternoon--he stopped her, and she was surprised at the cordiality of
-his greeting.
-
-“My young friend Lewis Pryor seems to have the privilege of your
-friendship above all of us,” he said.
-
-Sylvia smiled, and felt like making a reply similar to Lewis’s when
-Skelton asked him a question of the same sort; but she merely said that
-Lewis was a very sweet boy, and the friendship of boys was apt to be
-sincere and disinterested.
-
-“And discerning,” added Skelton. “Boys are very astute. I think they
-lose some of their astuteness when they get to be men.”
-
-Young women, as a rule, did not interest Skelton; but he was drawn to
-study Sylvia, first by her kindness to Lewis, and then by the oddity of
-the discovery that the daughter of Mrs. Shapleigh could have so much
-mother-wit as Sylvia undoubtedly had. And then, talking about trifles
-as their horses stood in the sandy road, under the bare overhanging
-branches of the linden trees that lined the lane, the talk drifted
-to the Jockey Club. Skelton had just come from a meeting, and was
-evidently much interested in the subject.
-
-“I think everybody in the county gets a species of horse madness twice
-a year,” he said, “and it is contagious. I assure you, that beast
-of mine--Jaybird--takes up an unconscionable amount of my time and
-attention. And, after all, that black colt which you chose to call
-Alabaster may make me bite the dust.”
-
-Sylvia could not tell whether Skelton hid any real resentment under his
-careless manner or not, but an impulse seized upon her to tell him all
-about it.
-
-“You know, perhaps,” she said, looking him full in the eyes, “that
-Alabaster was mine, and I hated the idea of his being whipped and
-spurred as race horses are; and when papa told me that Mr. Blair
-wanted him, I quite made up my mind not to part with him. But Mr. Blair
-came over one morning, and I declare, I never saw such eagerness--”
-
-Sylvia paused. She was getting upon delicate ground; but Skelton helped
-her out:
-
-“Oh, yes; Blair is a maniac upon the subject of beating my horse. He
-is scarcely responsible. However, there are pleasanter things to talk
-about than horse racing. You have never honoured Deerchase yet with
-that visit you promised me, to look at my pictures.”
-
-“Because, whenever I ask papa or mamma to take me, they always say you
-are busy on your great book, and I must wait for an invitation.”
-
-“You shall wait no longer,” said Skelton courteously; “come
-to-morrow--come to-day.”
-
-As they parted with a half promise on Sylvia’s part about the visit,
-she cantered briskly down the lane while Skelton rode back slowly to
-Deerchase. Ah, that book! He had made apologies and excuses to himself
-for not writing it for fifteen years past. A desperate apprehension of
-failure haunted him. Suppose all this brilliant promise should come
-to naught! And it was his sole resource under any circumstances. He
-was too old, and he had tasted too many pleasures, to make pleasure
-an object with him any longer. Domestic life he was shut out from,
-unless he chose to pay a price even more preposterous for it than
-people imagined; for, although the county was not without information
-regarding Skelton’s affairs, there were some particulars, peculiarly
-galling to him, that only a few persons in the world knew. Skelton
-was the last man on earth to submit easily to any restrictions, but
-those laid upon him by the jealous fondness of the dead woman sometimes
-made him grind his teeth when he thought of them. Often he would rise
-from his bed in the middle of the night and walk the floor for hours,
-tormented with the sense of having been robbed of his personal liberty
-and of being a slave in the midst of all his power. For the late Mrs.
-Skelton, who married him from the purest infatuation, so bitterly
-resented the opposition of her family to her marriage with Skelton,
-that she determined, even in the event of his marrying again, that
-they at least should not profit by it. But in carrying out this fine
-scheme a woman and three lawyers managed to create a complication that
-was calculated to infuriate any man; and could she have risen from her
-grave and have known the result of her handiwork, her chagrin would
-have been only second to Skelton’s.
-
-Skelton did not, for a wonder, hate his wife’s memory for this. He
-was singularly just in his temperament, and he only hated the three
-lawyers, who pocketed each a great fee for making a will that palpably
-defeated its own object--a not uncommon occurrence. Although he had not
-fully returned the passionate devotion of his wife, he had yet loved
-her and felt deeply grateful to her, more for her devotion than her
-money; for the secret of Mrs. Skelton’s devotion had been the knowledge
-that, after all, Skelton had not married her for her money. Bulstrode
-always said that Skelton married her to spite her relations. Certain
-it is, the declaration of the great family to which she belonged, that
-she never should marry Skelton, did more to precipitate his offer
-than anything else. Afterwards his kindness to her, his delicacy, and
-the conviction that he did not know how absolutely she was mistress
-of her own fortune, deeply impressed her affectionate nature. In her
-last illness, which came before she had been married six months, the
-greed, the rapacity, the heartlessness of her own family was in marked
-contrast to Skelton’s delicate reticence. He declined to talk of her
-money, either to her or her lawyers; he left the room when she asked
-his wishes; he could not bargain with a creature so young, so tender,
-and so short a time for this world. But he reaped his reward, only with
-some results that nobody ever dreamed of, and which made Skelton in
-his heart denounce the whole tribe of lawyers as dolts, dunderheads,
-rascals, cheats, frauds, and incapables.
-
-But although he very much doubted whether he ever would have cared to
-risk the matrimonial yoke again, it was inexpressibly irritating to him
-to know that he could not, and that everybody knew he could not. He
-noticed, sardonically, the manœuvring mothers and designing daughters
-gave faint indications that he was not in the running; and worldly-wise
-young women would be likely to be shy of his attentions, for they could
-mean nothing. Skelton gave them no cause to be shy of him, but the
-whole thing humiliated him. There was that charming Sylvia--so thought
-Skelton, sitting in the library that afternoon with a book in his hand
-which he was not reading--she entertained him vastly; but no doubt that
-fool of a mother had canvassed his affairs and his status, and had put
-notions in the girl’s head. He was half sorry that he had asked her
-there, for to-morrow he meant to make a fair start on his book, to
-which he had so far written only the introduction.
-
-The next day Sylvia and her father came over to luncheon, Mrs.
-Shapleigh being ill--to Skelton’s great joy. Bulstrode rarely came
-to the table, and never when ladies were present; so there were only
-Skelton and Lewis Pryor and old Tom Shapleigh and his daughter.
-
-Lewis was delighted to see Sylvia, and showed his pleasure by shy,
-adoring glances and vivid blushes whenever she smiled at him. Things
-at Deerchase appeared very grand to Sylvia’s provincial eyes, but she
-seemed to fit easily and gracefully into the surroundings. Skelton had
-never lacked for charm, and he was impelled to do his best in his own
-house. Old Tom tried to talk racing once or twice, but Skelton adroitly
-headed him off. He fascinated Sylvia with his conversation. It was
-thoroughly unaffected, racy, full of anecdote, and all about things
-that Sylvia wanted to know. Skelton had been to Abbotsford, and had
-spent some days under the great man’s roof. He had travelled post with
-Byron, and had walked with Goethe in his garden at Weimar. To a girl at
-that time and in that part of the world all this was a splendid dream.
-Sylvia looked at Skelton with new eyes. That brown, sinewy hand had
-touched Byron’s; that musical voice had talked with Scott and Goethe;
-he had walked over the field of Waterloo, and knew London and Paris
-like a book. Skelton was pleased and amused with Sylvia’s breathless
-interest--her innocent wonder at many very simple things. Much of it
-was new to Lewis, and when Sylvia turned to him and said:
-
-“Ah, Lewis! is it not delightful?” Lewis answered:
-
-“Yes, and it is so delightful for us to hear it together.”
-
-Lewis was not quite conscious of the meaning of what he said, but
-a roar from old Tom, and much laughter from Skelton, and Sylvia’s
-retiring behind her fan, made him blush more than ever and abstain from
-further communications with Sylvia.
-
-After luncheon and the pictures, old Tom would by no means be denied
-a visit to the stables and Jaybird, so Sylvia was left to the tender
-mercies of Bob Skinny as cicerone, who showed her the greenhouses and
-gardens. Lewis kept close to her, and plucked up spirit enough to
-squeeze her hand whenever he had half a chance, and to offer to take
-her out in his boat every day if she would go. Bob Skinny was in his
-glory. He wore a blue coat and brass buttons, and a huge cambric ruffle
-decorated with cotton lace adorned his shirt-front. If Bob Skinny had
-had anything whatever to do in the way of work, this style of dress
-would have been an impossibility; but as he managed to make the other
-negroes do his work, while he devoted himself to answering Skelton’s
-bell, to the care of his own person, and playing the “fluke,” he could
-afford to be a magnificent coxcomb.
-
-“Now, Miss Sylvy,” he began loftily, “of co’se Mr. Skelton an’ me is
-got sumpin’ else ter do den to go circumventin’ roun’ dese heah flowers
-an’ truck. We has got our gre’t work on philosophy ter write. Fifteen
-thousan’ books in dat ar libery, Miss Sylvy; fifteen thousan’, ez sho’
-as I’se Mr. Skelton’s vally--not dat I breshes his clo’s none, nor
-black he boots; Jake, he do dat kin’ o’ demeanin’ work.”
-
-“But I see you are the butler, Bob,” remarked Sylvia, thinking this an
-astute bit of flattery.
-
-“You is mistaken, miss,” answered Bob with dignified tartness. “I
-is de major domo; Sam Trotter, he de butler. You see, I’se had de
-adwantages o’ trabel, an’ I kin read an’ wrote, an’ play de fluke, an’
-dem ’complishments is wasted in a butler; but dey is mighty fitten for
-a major domo, who is quite a ’nother kind o’ pusson, Miss Sylvy.”
-
-“So I perceive,” answered Sylvia hastily, and exchanging looks with
-Lewis.
-
-“Now, when Mr. Skelton was a-tellin’ you dem inwentions o’ his’n ’bout
-Mr. Byrum an’ de Duke o’ Scott an’ Lord Gayety, he didn’ tole you dat
-I wuz ’long too, an’ I done play de fluke for ev’y one of ’em; an’ dey
-ev’y one ax Mr. Skelton what he would tooken for me--’kase dey doan’
-hab nuttin’ but white niggers ober d’yar, an’ dey all mighty glad ter
-git er cullud gent’man ter wait on ’em. But Mr. Skelton he tole de
-Duke o’ Scott, ‘I wouldn’t part wid Bob Skinny for de whole o’ yo’ ole
-Rabbitsford.’ Dis heah is de truf I’se tellin’ you, Miss Sylvy.”
-
-“Of course, Bob,” remarked Sylvia affably.
-
-“Bob,” said Lewis gravely, “tell Miss Sylvia about the Duke of
-Wellington.”
-
-“Hi, little marse, Miss Sylvy she doan’ want ter hear nuttin’ ’bout de
-Duke o’ Wellington,” replied Bob, immensely flattered, but desiring to
-be pressed.
-
-“Indeed I do, Bob!” cried Sylvia, seating herself in a rustic settee
-with Lewis, while Bob struck an attitude before her.
-
-“Well, Miss Sylvy, I tell you I doan’ think much o’ de duke. He what I
-call po’ white trash, ’kase he ain’ got no manners; an’ I done see de
-worl’, an’ I alius knowed a gent’man when I see him. I wuz walkin’ long
-in de park in London one day--dey got a gre’t place wid trees an’ grass
-an’ flowers, an’ dey calls it a park--an’ I see de duke a-comin’ ’long,
-walkin’ by hisse’f. He was monst’ous homely, an’ he clo’s warn’t no
-better’n mine, an’ I tho’t I’d spoke ter him; so I jes’ step up, an’ I
-say, ‘Sarvant, sah, I’se Mr. Skelton’s vally, from Deerchase, Virginny,
-de bigges’ plantation an’ de mo’es’ niggers--’ ‘Git out o’ my way,
-feller!’ says de duke, wavin’ he stick at me. I wuz gwine tell him all
-’bout de Skeltons, an’ pay him my ’spects, but arter dat I didn’ tuk no
-mo’ notice on’ him, dough I see him ev’y day stramanadin’ in de park.
-I reckon, ef he had done listen when I say I wuz Mr. Skelton’s vally,
-he’d er been ez perlite ez a dancin’ master, ’kase he mus’ ’a’ knowed
-all ’bout Mr. Skelton an’ Deerchase. But, Miss Sylvy, I doan’ keer much
-’bout dem gre’t folks ober d’yar. You dunno ef dey is de fust families
-or not. An’ ez for dem white niggers dat waits on ’em, I wouldn’ demean
-myse’f to ’sociate wid ’em under no desideratum.”
-
-Bob Skinny then branched off into denunciation of the other negroes
-at Deerchase, to whom he fancied himself as much superior as if he
-were a being on a higher planet. There was war to the knife between
-them naturally, which was very much heightened by Bob’s being a
-“backslider.” Bob had been in the habit of “gittin’ ’ligion” regularly
-once a year at the revival meetings until Skelton took him to Europe.
-As the result of his “trabels” he had taken up the notion, which was
-not entirely unknown among his betters, that it was more elegant and
-_recherché_ to be without a religion than to have one. Consequently,
-Bob returned full of infinite contempt for the Hard-shell Baptists, the
-shouting Methodists, and all the other religions that flourished among
-the negroes.
-
-“You see, Miss Sylvy,” he explained argumentatively, “now I done see
-de worl’ an’ kin read an’ wrote an’ play on de fluke, what I want wid
-dis heah nigger ’ligion? I’se a philosopher.” Bob brought this out
-magnificently. “I say ter dem niggers, ‘What is it in ’ligion? Nuttin’
-’tall. What is it in philosophy? De truf, de whole truf, an’ nuttin’
-but de truf.’ I ain’ seen none on ’em yit kin answer my argufyin’.”
-
-After a while old Tom and Skelton came into the greenhouse, where Bob
-was still holding forth and giving the botanical names of the plants
-according to his own vernacular, but Bob shut up promptly as soon as
-Skelton appeared. Sylvia’s hands were full of flowers, given her by
-Lewis. The two had got very intimate now, and Lewis wore an air of
-boyish triumph. It was not worth while for Skelton to offer her any
-flowers if he had desired, she had so many.
-
-They had walked over from Belfield across the bridge, and when they
-started to return Skelton and Lewis walked with them, Lewis still
-hanging about Sylvia, so that Skelton, who had meant to walk home with
-her, was entirely thrown out. On the way they met Bulstrode lumbering
-across the lawn with a book in his hand. Sylvia stopped and spoke to
-him pleasantly. He remained looking after her, watching her slight
-figure as she went across the bridge, still gallantly escorted by Lewis.
-
-“I wonder if she would have jilted Skelton as Mrs. Blair did,” he
-thought.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX.
-
-
-The days passed on quickly enough at Deerchase, but not very
-satisfactorily. Skelton took eagerly to the racing scheme, and, with
-a little diplomacy on each side, a match was arranged for the spring
-meeting between Jaybird and Alabaster. Skelton himself did not appear
-at all in the transaction; it was conducted solely between Miles
-Lightfoot, the factotum, and Blair himself. With superior judgment
-to Blair, Skelton did not by any means regard the match as settled;
-he preferred to wait until it was run. But he took the most intense
-interest in it, and the thought of paying Blair off for his folly and
-presumption was agreeable enough to him. Then, this new amusement gave
-him something to do, for the work that he would have done continually
-eluded him. He spent many solitary hours in the great, beautiful
-library with piles of books and manuscript before him, and when a
-knock came at the door he was apt to be found pen in hand, as if hard
-at work. But many of those solitary hours were spent in a horrible
-idleness--horrible because he felt the time was slipping by and nothing
-was being done.
-
-Not even Bulstrode knew of those long days of depression, or that Miles
-Lightfoot, with his swagger and his continual boasting that Blair was
-to be driven off the turf altogether, was in the nature of a relief
-to an overstrained mind. Miles Lightfoot was a continual offense to
-Bulstrode, who was disgusted at seeing books and papers and everything
-swept off the library table to make room for racing calendars and all
-of Miles’s paraphernalia.
-
-As for Lewis, his mind seemed to have taken a sudden start. He had been
-thrown with Skelton as he never had been before in his life, and from a
-dim wonder what Skelton’s position to him was, came another wonder as
-to his own position at Deerchase.
-
-Apparently nothing could be more fixed or agreeable. The servants
-called him “little marse,” and seemed to regard him as their future
-master; he had the run of the house, the stables, the gardens, and
-nobody questioned his right. But Skelton was not only no relation to
-him, but not even his guardian. And then he had not made friends with
-any boy in the county, except Hilary Blair, and Hilary never came to
-Deerchase, nor had he ever been to Newington. Indeed, as Lewis thought,
-with tears starting to his eyes, the only real friend he had in the
-world was Sylvia Shapleigh. Her kindness made a powerful impression
-upon his affectionate nature. He loved her the more because he had
-so few things to love. He sometimes determined that he would ask Mr.
-Bulstrode, or perhaps even Mr. Skelton, why he had no boy friends, but
-he never did it when he thought he would.
-
-Bulstrode had taken a great interest in Mrs. Blair, partly from
-curiosity about the woman who had dared to jilt Richard Skelton, and
-partly from a reason connected with that preposterous will of the late
-Mrs. Skelton--for Elizabeth Blair was Skelton’s only near relative.
-The interest had been followed by a real esteem for her, due chiefly
-to a remark made quite innocently when Bulstrode went to Newington one
-evening. Mrs. Blair was teaching Hilary his Latin lesson, while Blair,
-who was a university man, guyed her unmercifully as he lay stretched
-out in a great chair.
-
-“When did you learn Latin, my dear madam?” asked Bulstrode, with a
-benevolent grin.
-
-“Ah, Mr. Bulstrode, I never learned Latin at all,” answered Mrs. Blair,
-with a smile and a blush; “I learned a few nouns and verbs long years
-ago, and now that I must teach Hilary, I have furbished them up a
-little for his benefit.”
-
-Her modesty pleased Bulstrode, who was disgusted by any assumption of
-learning.
-
-“Now, my boy,” he said to Hilary, “do you like Latin?”
-
-“First rate,” answered Hilary sturdily. “Like it better’n any lesson
-I’ve got. Wish I could read it like you do, Mr. Bulstrode.”
-
-Bulstrode was delighted.
-
-“My dear Mrs. Blair,” he cried, turning to her, “you have done more
-than I could do--you have made the boy like the undying language. If I
-could only do that with Lewis Pryor! The boy is bright enough--bright
-enough--but he wants to be reading modern histories and romances all
-the time.”
-
-Mrs. Blair coloured slightly at the mention of Lewis Pryor. She knew
-all about the surreptitious friendship between the two boys, and if
-Blair would have allowed it she would have had Lewis at Newington
-sometimes. But Blair swore it should not be. For want of something
-better to say, she asked:
-
-“How are you all coming on at Deerchase?”
-
-“Deuced badly,” answered Bulstrode, with candid disapproval. “Nothing
-but the damnable races, morning, noon, and night. Do you know Miles
-Lightfoot?”
-
-Mrs. Blair gave a little shudder.
-
-“Yes, I know him,” she answered.
-
-“The fellow was born a gentleman and bred one, I hear,” continued
-Bulstrode with energy, “but rides for pay in any sort of a race that he
-can get a mount. I ain’t a gentleman myself, Mrs. Blair, but I know one
-when I see him, and Miles Lightfoot has ceased to be a gentleman these
-ten years past. Well, he’s fairly domiciled at Deerchase. He is in
-charge of the Deerchase stable. Instead of Bulstrode and the library,
-Skelton is all for Lightfoot and the stables. Don’t know what made our
-friend Skelton take up this craze, but he’s got it, and he’s got an
-object in it.”
-
-“What is his object?” timidly asked Mrs. Blair--the boy had gone off
-then with his book, and was engaged in a good-natured teasing contest
-with his father. Blair’s children adored him, and thought him precisely
-their own age.
-
-“I’m dashed if I know,” cried Bulstrode, rumpling up his shock of
-grizzly, unkempt hair. “But that he’s got an object-- Lord, Mrs. Blair,
-did you ever know Richard Skelton to do anything without an object?”
-
-“It has been a good many years since I knew anything of Richard
-Skelton,” she said, with pretty hypocrisy; at which Bulstrode roared
-out his great, vulgar, good-natured “Haw! haw! haw!”
-
-“Mr. Blair called at Deerchase when Mr. Skelton returned, and Mr.
-Skelton has paid me one visit, when he stayed exactly twenty minutes.”
-
-But all the time her heart was beating painfully. She knew Skelton’s
-object--it was, to ruin her husband. Bulstrode kept up his haw-hawing.
-
-“You wouldn’t marry Skelton, ma’am, and you showed your sense. There
-are worse men than he in the world, but if I were a woman I’d rather
-marry the devil himself than Richard Skelton.”
-
-“But he got on very well with his first wife, didn’t he?” asked Mrs.
-Blair, with all a woman’s curiosity.
-
-“O Lord, yes! She worshipped the ground he trod on. It’s the most
-curious thing, the way human affairs always go contrary. Skelton,
-although he is a rich man, was disinterestedly loved, because his
-fortune was nothing to his wife’s--and he had no rank to give her. But
-she was an Honourable in her own right. And, stranger still, I believe
-he was disinterested in marrying her. I always said he did it to spite
-her family. She had a lot of toploftical relations--she was related
-to half the peerage and all the baronetage--and they got to hectoring
-her about Skelton’s attentions, when I do assure you, madam, I don’t
-think he had any notion of falling in love with her. They tried to
-hector Skelton. Great powers of heaven! You can just imagine how the
-scheme worked, or rather how it didn’t work!” Here Bulstrode winked
-portentously. “The lady was her own mistress and could control every
-stiver of her money, and one fine morning she walked off to church
-and married Skelton without any marriage settlement! When it was done
-and over, the great folks wanted to make friends with him, but Skelton
-wouldn’t have it at all. He held his own with the best of ’em. One
-secret of Skelton’s power is that he don’t give a damn for anybody.
-Skelton’s a gentleman, you know. Then the poor young woman was taken
-ill, and her relations got to bothering her with letters about what she
-was going to do with her money. Mrs. Skelton used to try and talk to
-Skelton about it--I was with him then--but he would get up and go out
-of the room when she mentioned the subject. He’s a very delicate-minded
-man where money is concerned. And then she sent for her lawyers, and
-they made her a will, madam, which she signed, after having made some
-alterations in it with her own hand. And such a will as it turned out
-to be! Lord, Lord, Lord!”
-
-Bulstrode rose and walked about the room excitedly. Mrs. Blair watched
-him breathlessly. Blair had stopped his play with Hilary, and was
-listening with all his ears. When the string of Bulstrode’s tongue was
-unloosed he usually stopped at nothing. But now he was restrained. He
-had gone as far as he dared, but he looked hard at Mrs. Blair, and said:
-
-“You are Skelton’s nearest relative--ain’t you, madam?”
-
-“Yes,” answered Mrs. Blair, in a low voice. “I am his first cousin--and
-I am the last of my family.”
-
-“Lord, Lord, Lord!” shouted Bulstrode again, then relapsed into
-silence, and suddenly burst into his great laugh. Mrs. Blair felt
-uncomfortable and perplexed, and Blair got up and left the room.
-
-Bulstrode said no more of Skelton, and went back to his grievances
-about the racing, and then took up the Latin grammar again. Mrs. Blair,
-who had a very just estimate of her own knowledge of Latin, had an
-inordinately high one of Blair’s acquirements in that respect.
-
-“You know, Mr. Bulstrode,” she said, “Mr. Blair is really a very fine
-scholar. He was quite a distinguished Latinist when he was at William
-and Mary.”
-
-Bulstrode sniffed openly at Blair’s scholarship and William and Mary.
-
-“Then he ought to teach your boy, ma’am. I swear, Mrs. Blair, it addles
-my brain sometimes when I see the beauty and splendour of the passion
-you women bestow on your husbands and children.”
-
-Mrs. Blair’s face flushed a little, and a beautiful angry light burned
-in her eyes, as it always did at the slightest implication that Blair
-was not perfect.
-
-“Luckily for me,” she said, with a little arrogant air, “my husband and
-children are worthy of it. All that I know of unworthy husbands and
-children is about other women’s husbands and children.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” eagerly assented Bulstrode, and then went off again on the
-subject of his grievances about Miles Lightfoot and the races, and even
-that Lewis Pryor was getting too fond of the stables and stayed there
-too much, and he meant to speak to Skelton about it.
-
-Bulstrode left Mr. and Mrs. Blair under the impression that there was
-some queer complication connected with the late Mrs. Skelton’s money,
-with which they were mixed up, and it gave rise naturally to much
-speculation on their part.
-
-They talked it over a great deal, but they had nothing positive to go
-upon. Elizabeth, womanlike, tried to dismiss it from her mind, and
-the more so when she saw that Blair was deeply pondering it. At all
-events, Skelton would keep his own until his death, for neither of them
-believed he would marry again; and as he was not quite forty--some
-years younger than Blair himself--it was idle to think too much about
-what was so far in the future.
-
-Bulstrode was as good as his word about Lewis Pryor, and the very next
-day made his complaint about Lewis to Skelton.
-
-“Send him to me,” said Skelton briefly.
-
-In due time Lewis stood before Skelton in the library, through whose
-diamond-paned windows the woods and fields glowed beautifully under the
-red December sun. Skelton began in his calm, reasonable voice:
-
-“Lewis, Mr. Bulstrode tells me that you spend most of your time with
-Yellow Jack and the stablemen, instead of at your books. How is this?”
-
-“Because, sir,” answered Lewis, “I am very fond of horses, and I’m not
-doing any harm down at the stables.”
-
-Skelton turned and faced the boy, whose tone was perfectly respectful,
-but it was that of one disposed to argue the point. As Lewis’s eyes
-met his, Skelton was struck by their beauty--they were so deeply, so
-beautifully black, and the very same idea came into Lewis’s mind--“What
-black, black eyes Mr. Skelton has!”
-
-Skelton’s memory went back twenty-five years. How wonderfully like was
-the little scamp’s coolness to his own in the bygone days, when old Tom
-Shapleigh would come over to rail and bluster at him!
-
-“At present,” continued Skelton, smiling a little, “horses and horse
-racing cannot take up a great deal of your time. It is your business to
-fit yourself for your manhood. You have every advantage for acquiring
-the education of a gentleman. Bulstrode, with all his faults, is the
-best-educated man I ever met; and, besides, it is my wish, my command,
-that you shall be studious.”
-
-“But, Mr. Skelton,” said Lewis, with strange composure, and as if
-asking a simple question, “while I know you are very generous to me,
-why do you command me? Mr. Bulstrode is my guardian.”
-
-The boy’s audacity and the shock of finding that his mind had begun
-to dwell on his status at Deerchase, completely staggered Skelton.
-Moreover, Lewis’s composure was so inflexible, his eyes so indomitable,
-that he all at once seemed to reach the mental stature of a man.
-Skelton was entirely at a loss how to answer him, and for a moment the
-two pairs of black eyes, so wonderfully alike, met in an earnest gaze.
-
-“I cannot explain that to you now,” answered Skelton after a little
-pause; “but I think you will see for yourself that at Deerchase I must
-be obeyed. Now, in regard to your continual presence at the stables, it
-must stop. I do not forbid you to go, altogether, but you must go much
-less than you have been doing, and you must pay more attention to your
-studies. You may go.”
-
-Lewis went out and Skelton returned to his books. But he was strangely
-shaken. That night he said to Bulstrode, after Lewis had gone to bed:
-
-“What promise there is in the boy! I don’t mean promise of genius--God
-forbid! he will write no Voices of the People at nineteen--but of great
-firmness of character and clearness of intellect.”
-
-“I don’t see why you are so down on genius,” said Bulstrode, not
-without latent malice. “You were always reckoned a genius yourself.”
-
-“That is why I would not have Lewis reckoned one mistakenly, as I
-have been. There is something not altogether human about genius; it
-is always a miracle. It places a man apart from his fellows. He is an
-immortal among mortals. He is a man among centaurs. Give a man all the
-talent he can carry, but spare him genius if you would have him happy.
-There must be geniuses in the world, but let not Lewis Pryor be one of
-them, nor let him--let him be falsely reckoned one!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X.
-
-
-The races had always been a great event in the county, but Skelton’s
-presence and personal interest in them, and his large outlay upon his
-stable, gave an increased zest to the sport. On Sundays the gentlemen
-of the county scarcely went in church until sermon-time at all now, but
-sat around on the tombstones and talked horse unflaggingly. When it
-rained they gathered in the low porch of the church, and the murmur of
-their voices penetrated the great doors and accompanied Mr. Conyers’s
-voice during the liturgy. Mr. Conyers had conscientious scruples about
-racing, as he had about everything else, and, seeing how much his
-congregation was given over to it, and hearing of the large sums of
-money that would change hands at the spring meeting, he took it upon
-himself to preach a sermon against the cult of the horse. Skelton,
-for a wonder, happened to be at church that Sunday with Lewis. As the
-clergyman preached earnestly and plainly, inveighing against the state
-of affairs, people had very little trouble in fitting his remarks to
-certain individuals. He spoke of the wrong of men of great wealth and
-personal influence throwing both in the scales of demoralising sports;
-and every eye was turned on Skelton, who bore it unflinchingly and even
-smilingly. His dark, well-cut face, with its high nose and firm chin,
-was clearly outlined against the ridiculous purple-silk curtains of his
-pew. But he did not move an eyelash under the scrutiny of the whole
-congregation. When Conyers branched off, denouncing the greater folly
-and wickedness of men who could ill afford it risking their all upon a
-matter so full of uncertainties, chances, and cheats as racing, that
-brought Blair upright in his pew. He folded his arms and glared angrily
-at the preacher. No cool composure was there, but red-hot wrath,
-scarcely restrained. Then it was old Tom Shapleigh’s turn. Tom was a
-vestryman, and that was the handle that Conyers had against him when
-he spoke of the evil example of older men who should be the pillars
-of decorum, and who were connected with the church, giving themselves
-over to these pernicious amusements. Old Tom was the most enthusiastic
-turfite going, and, having become one of the managers of the Campdown
-course, had not been to a single meeting of the vestry since that
-event. But he could not have been kept away from the managers’ meeting
-except by tying him. Mr. Shapleigh was in a rage within half a minute,
-bustling about in his pew, and slapping his prayer-book together
-angrily. But nothing could exceed Mrs. Shapleigh’s air of profound
-satisfaction. “I told you so!” was written all over her face. Sylvia,
-like Skelton, managed to maintain her composure. When the congregation
-was dismissed and the clergyman came out among the gossiping people in
-the churchyard, he was avoided more resolutely than ever, except by a
-few persons. Skelton walked up promptly, and said:
-
-“Good-morning, Conyers. You scalped me this morning, but I know it
-comes from your being so unnecessarily honest. As I’ve doubled my
-subscription to the club, I think it’s only fair to double it to the
-church, so you may call on me.”
-
-“Thank you,” said Conyers with real feeling, more touched by Skelton’s
-magnanimity than by his money; “I see you appreciate that what I said
-was from a motive of conscience.”
-
-“Of course. It won’t damp my enthusiasm for the races, but it certainly
-shall not turn me from a man as upright as yourself. Good-morning.”
-
-Next came old Tom Shapleigh, fuming:
-
-“Well, hello, Conyers. You made a devil of a mess of it this morning.”
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh, you shouldn’t speak of the devil before Mr. Conyers,”
-remonstrated Mrs. Shapleigh.
-
-“I’m sure he speaks of the devil often enough before me, and of hell,
-too, Mrs. Shapleigh!” roared Mr. Shapleigh. “Now, Conyers, I tell you
-what: if I can’t be a vestryman and on the board of managers too, why,
-begad! I’ll resign from the vestry.--See if I don’t, Mrs. Shapleigh!”
-
-“And the bishop coming too!” groaned Mrs. Shapleigh--for the
-long-expected visitation had not yet been made, but was expected
-shortly.
-
-“And if a man will go to the dogs,” shouted old Tom, growing more angry
-every moment, “why, horse racing is a deuced gentlemanly road to ruin.”
-
-“You are at liberty to think as you please, Mr. Shapleigh,” said poor
-Conyers, his sallow face flushing. “I have done my duty, and I fear no
-man.”
-
-Sylvia Shapleigh at that moment put her hand in his and gave him one of
-the kindest looks in the world out of her soft, expressive, grey eyes.
-
-“You always do your duty, and you never fear any man,” she said, and
-Conyers felt as if he had heard a consoling angel.
-
-The Blairs came along on the heels of the Shapleighs. Mrs. Blair,
-although usually she bitterly resented any reflection cast on Blair,
-was yet secretly pleased at the clergyman’s wigging, in the vain hope
-that it might do some good; so she, too, spoke to Conyers cordially and
-kindly. Blair passed him with a curt nod. The Blairs proceeded to their
-rickety carriage--which, however, was drawn by a pair of first-class
-nags, for Blair could always afford a good horse--and went home. For
-all their billing and cooing they occasionally differed, and on this
-occasion they did not bill and coo at all.
-
-Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh not only did not bill and coo on their way home,
-but had a very spirited matrimonial skirmish.
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh,” said Mrs. Shapleigh, as soon as she was settled in the
-coach, “I know what I shall do, after your threat to resign from the
-vestry. I shall have Mr. Conyers pray for you in church!”
-
-Now, this was the one threat which never failed to infuriate old Tom,
-because he knew Mrs. Shapleigh was fully capable of asking it, and
-Conyers was fully capable of doing it. So his reply was a shout of
-wrath:
-
-“The hell you will! Very well, madam, very well. The day that Conyers
-has the effrontery to pray for me, that day my subscription to his
-salary stops. I’ll not be prayed for, madam--I’ll be damned if I will!
-And I am a very good Churchman, but if I am prayed for in Abingdon
-church, I’ll turn Baptist, and be baptized in Hunting Creek just as
-soon as we have a freeze, so I can risk my life and say my wife drove
-me to it. And I’ll die impenitent--see if I don’t, Mrs. Shapleigh. No,
-I’ll do worse: I’ll join the Methodists and pray for _you_, madam, in
-prayer meeting--damn me, that’s what I’ll do!”
-
-This last terrible threat prevailed; for once, Mrs. Shapleigh was
-beaten, and she knew it.
-
-Blair had continued to feel an almost wild solicitude about Alabaster,
-and to regard him more and more as a horse of destiny. Nothing could
-shake this belief, not even when Alabaster suddenly developed in
-training the most diabolical temper that could be imagined. This,
-Blair professed to believe, was another guarantee of Alabaster’s speed
-and endurance; he declared he had never known one of those devilish
-horses that was not invincible on the race track. But here a serious
-difficulty occurred. The horse, being so watched and tended by Blair
-and Hilary, took the most vicious dislike towards the negro stablemen
-generally, and especially the boy that was to ride him--for most of
-the jockeys in that part of the world were negro boys. Hilary was the
-only person that could ride him, and even then he would sometimes kick
-and bite and plunge furiously; but there was no getting Hilary off a
-horse’s back, as Alabaster found out. In those days in Virginia the
-boys rode almost before they walked, and amused their adolescence by
-riding unbroken colts barebacked.
-
-They rode like Comanche Indians or Don Cossacks. Occasionally an
-accident happened, but it was regarded in the light of falling
-downstairs, or slipping upon the ice, or any other unlooked-for
-dispensation.
-
-Although Skelton and Blair hated each other and made no disguise about
-it, yet it was not the fashion for gentlemen to quarrel, and so they
-kept on terms scrupulously. Blair had called upon Skelton a second
-time, and Skelton was waiting until after the spring race meeting was
-over and Jaybird had distanced Alabaster before returning the visit.
-On the occasional Sundays when they met at church, both men talked
-together civilly enough in a group. Skelton had heard of Alabaster’s
-sudden demoralisation, and Blair knew it; but Blair had a trump left
-to play before the final game. One Sunday, soon after this, Mrs. Blair
-having wheedled Blair into going to church, and Skelton happening
-along, a number of gentlemen were standing about the churchyard, and
-some talk about the coming match between Jaybird and Alabaster was
-indulged in. The deepest interest was felt in this match, and nearly
-every man in the county had something on it. Blair had so much on it,
-that sometimes the thought of it drove the ruddy colour out of his
-face when he was alone and in a reflective mood. And then came in
-that sudden change in the horse’s temper, and Blair made up his mind
-that Hilary should ride the horse. The boy was, of course, much more
-intelligent than the negro jockey, and was, in fact, one of the best
-riders in a county where everybody rode well. Mrs. Blair made no
-objection--she saw too plainly the necessity for not throwing away a
-single chance--but she was unhappy at the idea that her fresh-faced
-stripling should be drawn into the vortex.
-
-Blair mentioned this, talking with Skelton and half a dozen men
-listening.
-
-“Alabaster has got a devil of a temper,” he said frankly, “but my boy
-Hilary can manage him--that is, as far as anybody can. I think Hilary
-could keep him in a straight course. Of course, I don’t say he can hold
-the horse--the chap’s not yet fifteen--but nobody can, for that matter.
-Alabaster has a mouth of iron, and he knows what other horses don’t
-know--that nobody can really hold a horse who hasn’t got a mind to be
-held. But with Hilary it is simply a question of sticking on him and
-heading him right, and the youngster can do that.”
-
-“Do you apprehend any danger?” asked Skelton.
-
-Blair laughed pleasantly, showing his white teeth.
-
-“Well, I’d apprehend some danger for myself. I weigh a hundred and
-two-and-sixty, and if the creature landed me unexpectedly in the road
-it would be a pretty heavy fall; but as for the boy, why, Alabaster
-could no more get rid of him than he could throw a grasshopper. I would
-be perfectly willing to back Alabaster with Hilary up against Jaybird
-with your young friend Lewis Pryor--that is, if you do not apprehend
-any danger.”
-
-“Done!” said Skelton calmly. He had been caught in a trap, and he knew
-it; but as Blair had never hesitated to accept a challenge from him, so
-he would not under any circumstances refuse a challenge from Blair. Of
-course, he at once saw the drift of Blair’s remark--it was malicious,
-to bring Lewis forward, and, besides, it was extremely unlikely that he
-should be so good a rider as Hilary Blair. Nevertheless Skelton said:
-
-“Lewis Pryor has not ridden barebacked ever since he was born, like
-your boy, but he has been well taught in the riding schools, and he is
-naturally as fine a rider as I ever saw. Jaybird isn’t vicious; it is
-more intelligence than anything else in riding him. I think I can trust
-Lewis farther than the negro boys that do duty here for jockeys. They
-can ride very much as you say your boy can, but as for any intelligent
-management of a race, why they are simply incapable of it.”
-
-Blair did not like the comparison between Hilary and the negro jockeys,
-but he, too, said:
-
-“Done!” And Skelton added:
-
-“Come to my house to-morrow, and we’ll arrange it.”
-
-“No,” answered Blair stoutly. “Come to my house.”
-
-“Certainly, if you wish,” replied Skelton courteously.
-
-As Blair drove home with his wife through the odorous woods, already
-awaking to the touch of spring although it was only February,
-exultation possessed him. As for Jaybird, he had long been of the
-opinion that he was a leggy, overbred beast, all looks and no bottom;
-and then to be ridden by that black-eyed Pryor boy, that had learned to
-ride in a riding-school--why it would simply be beer and skittles for
-Hilary and Alabaster. Even if Jaybird could win the race, Lewis Pryor
-couldn’t. Mrs. Blair did not wholly share these glorious expectations,
-and hated the idea of Hilary having anything to do with it.
-
-Skelton’s silent anger grew more and more, as he thought over the
-pit into which Blair had dropped him. He cared nothing for the money
-involved, but he cared tremendously for the issue between Blair and
-himself. And then, to put Lewis up against Hilary! Skelton would
-cheerfully at any moment have given half his fortune rather than Hilary
-should have any triumph over Lewis. Then, like Mrs. Blair, he did not
-think a precocious acquaintance with the race course a good thing for a
-boy, and so he counted this stroke of Blair’s as another grudge owed to
-him and assuredly to be paid off.
-
-Bulstrode became every day more disgusted. Work on the great book had
-come to a standstill. Skelton still got piles of books every month from
-Europe, and stacks of letters from literary and scientific men, but
-his heart and soul apparently were in the Campdown course. The whole
-neighbourhood was arrayed in hostile camps on the question. Some of
-the women, like Mrs. Shapleigh, openly, and Elizabeth Blair, secretly,
-opposed it; but among the men, only Mr. Conyers and Bulstrode were
-not enthusiastically in favour of it. Skelton persistently described
-Blair’s horses as “the Newington stable,” although Blair himself
-continued to allude to them deprecatingly as his “horse or two.” And
-Skelton was always making inquiries into the pedigree of Blair’s
-horses, which rather staggered Blair, who knew that they were not above
-reproach, and that an occasional strain of good blood did not entitle
-him to call them thoroughbreds. Nevertheless, this could not cure him
-of his delusion that his “horse or two” would one day beat Skelton’s
-very best blood and brawn.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XI.
-
-
-In the course of time the bishop arrived upon his yearly visitation.
-He was a large, handsome man, with an apostolic manner. He never
-condemned; he only remonstrated, and was in himself a harmless and
-well-meaning person. But he found a most unsatisfactory state of
-affairs in Abingdon parish. The breach between the pastor and the flock
-was so wide that, had they not been the slowest and least aggressive
-people in the world, they would have long since parted company.
-
-The bishop spent one night at the rectory, and thereafter accepted
-very thankfully the lavish hospitality of the laity. The rain leaked
-into the bishop’s room at the rectory, and its steady drip, drip, drip
-kept him awake. The bed upon which his episcopal form reposed was very
-hard, and next morning, when he peered out of his curtainless window,
-he saw Mr. Conyers chopping up wood for the black cook. That was enough
-for the bishop. The next day he went to Belfield, preferring Mrs.
-Shapleigh’s company to the discomforts of Conyers’s meagre home.
-
-Of course, bishop and pastor had talked about the Campdown race course,
-and Mr. Conyers had been gently chided for excessive zeal. Mr. Conyers
-thereupon said his conscience would not let him remain silent when he
-saw the evil the matter was doing. He knew at least a dozen members
-of his congregation who had become bankrupt through frequenting the
-course, and he knew another one--he meant Blair, but did not speak
-the name--who was on the highway to ruin. He had been grieved to see
-Mr. Skelton’s immense fortune and great personal influence thrown in
-the scale in favour of racing, and it was from the sincerest sense of
-duty that he had preached in season and out of season against what had
-become a public shame and scandal.
-
-The bishop, in a sonorous voice but with weak reason, argued that
-horse racing, although to be deplored, was not necessarily wrong. Mr.
-Conyers respectfully submitted that it had proved very wrong in his
-personal experience, and that he was striving to prevail against what
-was obviously and palpably an evil to the community, and he could not
-think it reasonable to suppose that the obvious evil to the men of
-the county was balanced by the possible good to the horse. The bishop
-“hemmed” and “ha’d” and beat about the bush. Then Conyers was induced,
-by some foolish impulse, to impart to the bishop the doubts he had
-laboured under. The bishop, who accepted all he was taught without
-investigation, strongly recommended Mr. Conyers to do the same. Mr.
-Conyers’s mind was unfortunately so constituted that he couldn’t do it.
-On the whole, the bishop never had a more uncomfortable visit in his
-life, and was sincerely glad when Mrs. Shapleigh’s carriage hove in
-sight.
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh was not insensible to the honour of entertaining a
-bishop, and even confided to Mr. Shapleigh a wish that the bishop, who
-was a widower of two years’ standing, might take a fancy to Sylvia, who
-was only thirty years his junior.
-
-The bishop preached the following Sunday at church, and Bulstrode
-went to hear him, and took so much snuff during the sermon that the
-bishop sneezed seventeen times without any intermission. The bishop,
-however, had heard of Bulstrode’s great learning, and of Skelton
-and all the glories of Deerchase, and he gently insinuated to Mrs.
-Shapleigh that he would like to meet them. So Mrs. Shapleigh at once
-sent a darky tearing across the bridge with an invitation for the next
-day. The bishop spent his time at Belfield, when he was neither eating
-nor sleeping, sitting in a capacious chair in the drawing-room, and
-listening very gravely to Mrs. Shapleigh’s prattle.
-
-Sylvia spent most of her time out in the boat with Lewis, in order
-to get rid of the bishop, who bored her to death. Lewis told this
-to Bulstrode, who repeated it to Skelton. Skelton laughed quietly.
-That spirited young woman was not likely to fancy a person after the
-bishop’s pattern. Nevertheless, both of these prodigies--Skelton and
-Bulstrode--as Mrs. Shapleigh considered them, accepted her invitation
-to dinner, and so did Conyers, whose pleasure in going to Belfield was
-that Sylvia comforted and understood him.
-
-Bulstrode was disgusted because Conyers came to dine at Belfield that
-day. He had meant to wallop the bishop, figuratively speaking, but
-respect for Conyers would restrain him.
-
-Skelton was indifferent. He went because he hoped to be amused,
-and because the glory of the bishop’s visit would be dimmed if
-the distinguished Mr. Skelton, of Deerchase, failed to pay his
-respects; and then, he found Sylvia the most interesting woman of his
-acquaintance, and he wanted to see how she and the bishop got on. He
-was very much diverted upon this last point. The bishop was quite
-willing to overlook the thirty years’ difference in their ages, but
-Miss Sylvia perversely and subtly brought it forward at every turn.
-
-Old Tom, too, seemed bitten by a devil of contradiction, and the more
-Mrs. Shapleigh tried to give the conversation at the dinner table an
-evangelical turn, the more persistently old Tom talked about the races,
-past and future, the coming spring meeting, the beauties and delights
-of racing, and his determination, if he couldn’t be a vestryman and a
-manager too, to resign from the vestry. Sylvia cast a roguish glance
-at Skelton every now and then from under her eyelashes, and Skelton’s
-eyes laughed back at her sympathetically. The bishop shook his head
-deprecatingly at Mr. Shapleigh, but said nothing in condemnation. Out
-of compliment to Skelton and Bulstrode he tried very hard to introduce
-some knotty metaphysical talk, but luck was against him. Skelton
-declined to enter the lists with such an antagonist, and Bulstrode
-professed the most hypocritical ignorance upon every possible point of
-view presented by the bishop. “Don’t know, I’m sure”--“Never heard of
-it before”--“Good Gad, ask Skelton there; he reads, I don’t”--until the
-bishop became so insistent that Bulstrode suddenly turned and rent him.
-This very much amused Sylvia, sitting quiet and demure, playing at
-eating her dinner. Then Skelton launched into talk of horses and dogs,
-all very refined, very spirited, but to Conyers, watching him with sad
-eyes, very painful. How could such a man waste time on such subjects?
-Between horse racing and philosophy, poor Conyers had a dull time of it.
-
-[Illustration: SYLVIA DID MUCH FOR HERSELF ... BY THAT SPEECH.
-
---_Page 139_]
-
-The bishop, however, although he was lamentably deficient in the
-philosophy learned out of books, was nevertheless an excellent
-philosopher in action, and ate a very good dinner in much comfort,
-without disturbing himself about either the principles or the practices
-of his neighbours. After dinner Skelton went up to Sylvia in a corner
-of the drawing-room, and said in a low voice:
-
-“How have you stood him?”
-
-“Dreadfully ill, I am afraid,” answered Sylvia, hopelessly. “If it
-hadn’t been for little Lewis and his boat, I should have gone mad in
-these last few days.”
-
-Skelton’s eyes kindled. “How fond that boy is of you!”
-
-“How can one help being fond of him? He is so manly, so intelligent,
-so affectionate!” Without knowing it Sylvia did much for herself in
-Skelton’s regard by that speech.
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh insisted that Sylvia should play on the guitar for the
-bishop. Sylvia began to tune it, but two strings snapped in succession.
-Skelton then offered to string it for her, but then the new strings
-snapped. Sylvia shot him a grateful glance, as the guitar was laid
-away. Mrs. Shapleigh expressed to the bishop, and everybody else, her
-regret that the bishop couldn’t have heard Sylvia sing. When she said
-so to Bulstrode, he remarked in an audible growl:
-
-“Drat the bishop!”
-
-The reverend gentleman was luckily deaf to this, and Skelton
-immediately rose to go, with a wicked smile at Sylvia, who, in her
-way, seemed to lack for appreciation of her mother’s ecclesiastical
-idol quite as much as Bulstrode. When Skelton was back at Deerchase
-that night he thought Sylvia one of the most winning girls he had
-ever met. But then, he could not admire a charming girl as other men
-could. He was bound hand and foot. This idea threw him in one of his
-silent rages, and he walked the library floor for a long time, railing
-inwardly at Fate.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XII.
-
-
-Skelton was naturally far from pleased at having to stultify himself
-with Lewis by allowing him the full liberty of the stables, when he had
-strictly forbidden it. But there was no help for it after having fallen
-into what he considered the clumsy trap set for him by Blair. He was at
-great trouble to explain the whole thing to Lewis, when he sent for the
-boy in the library, to talk it over, and Lewis, whose wit was nimble
-enough, understood in a moment. Boy-like, he was delighted. He saw
-himself, the cynosure of all eyes, coming in a winner by an impossible
-number of lengths, with the men hurrahing, the ladies waving their
-handkerchiefs, and Sylvia Shapleigh handing him a bouquet before all
-the crowd of people. He hoped Mrs. Blair would not be there, though, to
-see Hilary’s downfall. Skelton explained everything to him carefully,
-took him to the stables, and himself watched him every day when he
-exercised Jaybird around the half-mile track on the Deerchase land,
-back of the stables.
-
-Another reason why Skelton was not pleased at the notion of having
-Lewis in the race was that he was afraid the boy would acquire a
-fondness for the sport, and he talked to him very seriously upon the
-subject, and told him that this first experience would no doubt be his
-last of the kind. As it had been during the time Skelton was teaching
-him to manage the boat, the two were thrown together much, and Lewis
-took the same strange pleasure in Skelton’s company as before.
-
-Bulstrode was not at all pleased with the arrangement, and became
-suddenly very strict and exacted a great deal of work from Lewis with
-his books. Lewis did the work, putting his mind to it very steadily,
-for fear Bulstrode would complain to Skelton, and then Skelton might
-not let him ride in the race, after all. Bulstrode was opposed to the
-whole thing. If Lewis lost the race he should be sorry, because he
-loved the boy; and if Hilary Blair lost it--good heavens! What would
-become of that dear Mrs. Blair, with her soft eyes and her sweet,
-ridiculous Latin?
-
-Bulstrode was talking about this one day, in his own den, to Lewis.
-This was the only shabby spot at Deerchase. It was smoky and snuffy
-to the last degree, and full of that comfortable untidiness which
-marks a man of books. However, here were only a few battered volumes,
-that contrasted strangely with Skelton’s magnificent array down in
-the library, which lined one vast room and overflowed into another.
-This contrast always tickled Bulstrode immensely, who had a way of
-calling attention to it, and then tapping his head, saying, “Here’s my
-library.” And there it was indeed.
-
-Lewis was balancing himself on the wide window seat, which was about
-twenty feet from the ground, and, after the manner of boys, trying to
-see how far he could lean out without tumbling over and breaking his
-neck.
-
-Nevertheless, he was listening very closely to Bulstrode, whose
-attention was divided. He was, all at once, pursuing the thread of his
-own thoughts, saving Lewis from tumbling out, and blowing smoke through
-the open window. It was one of the peculiarly bright, cloudless March
-days that come in that latitude.
-
-Everything on the plantation was full of the activity of spring. The
-great wheat fields in the distance showed a faint green upon the
-surface, although only the tenderest points of the wheat had pushed
-through the rich black earth. The woods were enveloped in a soft,
-green-grey haze, and the delicious smell of the newly ploughed ground
-was in the air. Afar off they could hear faintly the voices of the
-multitudes of black labourers, singing and laughing and chattering,
-as they drove the ploughs merrily. The thrushes and the blackbirds
-rioted musically in the trees, and a profligate robin roystered in a
-branch of the tall silver beech that grew directly under the window.
-The lawn was freshly and perfectly green, and the gravel walks were
-being lazily rolled by Sam Trotter, who was Bob Skinny’s coadjutor. The
-river was always beautiful, and the sun had turned it to molten gold.
-The great, dull, red-brick house, with its quaint peaks and gables,
-and the beautifully designed wings which had been added by Skelton,
-showed charmingly against the background of noble trees and the hedge
-of giant cedars which marked the pleasure grounds. A peacock sunned
-himself proudly on the stone steps which led down from the plateau on
-which the house stood, while on the marble porch, directly facing the
-peacock, stood Bob Skinny, superb in his blue coat and brass buttons
-and enormous shirt-ruffle, eying the peacock while the peacock eyed
-him. Neither one of them had anything better to do, although Bob
-occasionally called out a command to Sam Trotter about the way he was
-doing his work, which Sam received in contemptuous silence.
-
-Bulstrode was rather insusceptible to the charm of Nature and still
-life, but even he was deeply impressed with the beauty and plenty of
-the scene around him. Lewis felt it in the joyous, exhilarating way
-that young creatures feel pleasure before they have learned to think.
-He felt that it was good to live.
-
-Bulstrode was in his usual communicative mood.
-
-After denouncing horse racing as a foolish and inconsequent sport
-in general, he began to give his views about the Campdown races in
-particular.
-
-“Human nature is a queer thing,” said he to Lewis--he called it
-“natur’.” “Here are these races the whole county is mad about. You
-think it’s a comedy, hey, boy? Well, it’s not. It’s a tragedy--a
-tragedy, d’ye understand?”
-
-“There seems to be a fight over it all around,” said Lewis, who was
-alive to everything. “The parson’s against it. He’s a good man--ain’t
-he, Mr. Bulstrode?”
-
-“Yes, by Heaven he is!” cried Bulstrode, taking a huge pinch of snuff.
-“And let me tell you, I fear that man, just as I fear and reverence a
-good woman, not on account of his brains, although they are fairly
-good, but because of his superlative honesty. As for that lunkhead of
-a bishop, I protest he is wearisome to me. Mrs. Blair--Heaven bless
-her!--beguiled me into going to hear the creetur’ preach”--Bulstrode
-never could get such words as “creature” and “nature” and “figure”
-right--“and, upon my soul, I never heard such a farrago since God
-made me. He attempts to reason, the creetur’ does, and talks about
-ecclesiastical history, and he’s got a smattering of what he calls
-theology and canon law. Lord help the fools in this world! For every
-fool that dies two are born.”
-
-Lewis was accustomed to hearing bishops spoken of disrespectfully, and
-therefore took no exception to it.
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh says,” he continued, after another effort to see how far
-he could get out of the window without falling and breaking his neck,
-“Mr. Shapleigh says the bishop thinks Mr. Conyers has gone too far in
-opposing the races.”
-
-Here Lewis nearly succeeded in tumbling out, and Bulstrode caught him
-by the leg in the nick of time.
-
-“God bless the boy! can’t you keep quiet half a minute? Of course he
-has, to please that old fool, with his defective quantities and his
-notion that he is the wisest man that ever lived. However, when I went
-to hear that precious sermon I sat right under the creetur’, flapping
-about the pulpit in his white nightgown, and I took snuff until I
-nearly made him sneeze his head off. The day I was asked to dinner with
-him by that damned Mrs. Shapleigh, the ass sought me out--he’d heard
-something of Mr. Bulstrode! Ha! ha! He began talking what he thought
-was philosophy, and he doesn’t know a syllogism from a churn-dasher,
-so I couldn’t but trip him up. I thought it wasn’t worth while to
-try him with anything that wasn’t rudimentary, so I said to him, ‘Do
-you believe in the Aristotelian system?’ It seems he’d heard of old
-Aristotle somewhere or other, so he says, smirking and mighty polite:
-‘Of course, I admit the soundness of it, Mr. Bulstrode.’ ‘And,’ said
-I very crossly, ‘I suppose you believe in a revealed religion, don’t
-you?’ ‘O--w!’ says the bishop, exactly as if I had stuck a pin in him.
-‘My cloth, sir, is answer enough to that.’ Then I remarked: ‘You’ve got
-to accept Thomas Aquinas too--for if ever a bridge was made between
-natural and revealed religion, old Thomas has made it.’ You ought
-to have seen his countenance then. It shut him up for at least five
-minutes, during which he never opened his mouth except to put something
-in it. Then he began to tell me some rigmarole about Anglican theology,
-and I banged my fist down on the table, and said, ‘_Who consecrated
-Parker?_ Answer me that.’” Bulstrode shouted rather than said this, his
-recollection of the bishop’s discomfiture was so keen. “I know Mrs.
-Shapleigh said I behaved like an old ruffian to the bishop, but, dang
-me, the bishop’s an ass!”
-
-“I believe you think everybody’s an ass except the good folks,” said
-Lewis.
-
-“I believe I do,” answered Bulstrode, taking another gigantic pinch of
-snuff. “But I told you there was a tragedy about those Campdown races,
-and so there is. Now, this is it. Skelton has made up his mind to ruin
-Blair. He needn’t trouble himself--Blair will do the work fast enough
-without anybody’s help. But our respected friend and benefactor means
-to have a hand in it. That’s the meaning of the money he is pouring
-out like water, and that’s why Blair is making such a fight. But that
-poor wife of his--Lewis, Lewis, if you win that match you’ll stab that
-gentle creature to the heart!”
-
-Lewis gazed at Bulstrode with wide-open eyes. He was naturally tender
-and reverent to women, and the idea of inflicting pain upon any one of
-them was hateful to him. All at once the pleasure in the race seemed to
-vanish. What pleasure could it be when he came galloping in ahead, if
-poor Mrs. Blair were ruined and wretched and broken-hearted? He stopped
-his acrobatic performances and sat quite still in the window, looking
-sadly into Bulstrode’s face.
-
-“Will it make Mrs. Blair _very_ unhappy if Jaybird wins?” he asked.
-
-“Unhappy! It will drive Blair to the wall absolutely. He has acted like
-a madman all through. He has borrowed every penny he could lay his
-hands on to put on that black horse of his. Blair is a study to me. He
-is the most practical man in making money and the most unpractical man
-in getting rid of it I ever saw. Why, he makes more actual profit out
-of that place, Newington, than Skelton does out of Deerchase. Old Tom
-Shapleigh says he is the best farmer, stock-raiser, manager of negroes
-in the State of Virginia. If he could be driven from the turf he would
-be a rich man in ten years. But he’s got that racing vampire fixed
-upon him. God help his wife and children!”
-
-This made Lewis very unhappy. He went about haunted with the feeling
-that he was Mrs. Blair’s enemy. He began to hate the idea of the race
-as much as he had once been captivated by it. This was not lost on
-Skelton.
-
-Before that, the two boys had showed much elation over their
-coming prominence at the race meeting. When they met they assumed
-great knowingness in discussing turf matters, which they only half
-understood, and put on mannish airs to each other. Instead of “Lewis”
-and “Hilary,” as it had once been, it became “Pryor” and “Blair.” But
-afterward Hilary was surprised to find a great want of enthusiasm
-in Lewis. He spoke of it to his father, and Blair at once fancied
-that Lewis had shown the white feather. He told it triumphantly
-to Elizabeth, and adduced it as another proof that he had a “sure
-thing.” Elizabeth, though, was not so confident. She had seen too many
-disappointments come of Blair’s “sure things.”
-
-Skelton had not intended to return Blair’s last visit until after the
-race meeting, but the conviction that Blair would lose the race induced
-him to go over one day in the early spring to pay a visit, thinking it
-would be very painful to seek Blair out in defeat. So he drove over
-in his stylish curricle. Hilary met him at the door of the Newington
-house, and Skelton mentally compared him to Lewis Pryor, much to
-Lewis’s advantage. Skelton, though, scarcely did Hilary justice. The
-boy had his father’s physique and Blair’s wide mouth and white teeth,
-and also a great many freckles; but he had his mother’s charming
-expression. He escorted Skelton within the house.
-
-Blair at once appeared, and with much apparent cordiality led the way
-into the old-fashioned drawing-room, where Elizabeth sat sewing, with
-little Mary at her knee. An Arab hospitality prevailed among these
-people, and enemies were welcomed at each other’s houses.
-
-They talked together very amicably without once mentioning the subject
-which was uppermost in all their minds, until suddenly Hilary, with
-that maladroit ingenuity of which boys seem peculiarly possessed, asked
-suddenly:
-
-“Mr. Skelton, how’s Lewis Pryor coming on with Jaybird?”
-
-“Admirably,” responded Skelton with the utmost coolness.
-
-Blair had turned red, while Elizabeth had grown pale. Only little Mary
-sat and sewed unconcernedly.
-
-“I think,” said Elizabeth, after an awkward pause, and expressing the
-first idea that came into her mind, “it is the last race I will ever
-consent to let Hilary ride. I don’t think it does boys any good to
-interest them in such things.”
-
-Here was an opportunity for Skelton to hit back for Blair’s sneer at
-Lewis Pryor when the match was first arranged.
-
-“If you have the slightest objection to it,” he said blandly, “speak
-only one word and it is off. I need not say to you that I should regard
-the forfeit as nothing, and even give up the pleasure of seeing my
-horse matched against Mr. Blair’s, rather than give you one moment’s
-pain.”
-
-“Ah, no,” cried Elizabeth--she had taken fire at Skelton’s tone, and
-hastened to redeem herself from the humiliation of trying to get out of
-it.
-
-Blair simply glared at her. He thought Elizabeth had lost her senses;
-and before she could utter another word, he said, with a kind of savage
-coolness: “Certainly not. But if you think that your--young ward, is
-he--?”
-
-“Lewis Pryor is not my ward, he is Mr. Bulstrode’s,” responded Skelton,
-without the slightest change of tone. But there was a flush rising in
-his dark face. Blair managed to convey, subtly, a contempt of the boy,
-which was to Skelton the most infuriating thing under heaven.
-
-“Very well, then, whatever he is; if you feel any doubts of his ability
-to manage a horse--”
-
-“I don’t feel the slightest doubt,” answered Skelton, the flush
-mounting higher and showing dully through his olive skin. “It is a pity
-that this young gentleman should have started the one subject that
-we cannot discuss. It is difficult to teach a boy tact--impossible,
-almost, for when they are tactful it is born with them.”
-
-This, delivered in Skelton’s graceful manner, left the impression upon
-the mind of Blair and his wife that Skelton had very artfully called
-their boy a lout. However, he then turned his attention to little Mary,
-the childish image of her mother. Mary answered his questions correctly
-and demurely, and presently startled them by asking when Mr. Lewis
-Pryor was coming over to give her a ride on his pony.
-
-The child had met him riding about the roads and at church, and they
-had struck up an acquaintance, with the result of this promise. But
-as Lewis had never been to Newington, and, in fact, had never been
-asked, this increased the prevailing discomfort. Skelton, though, with
-elaborate ease, promised to find out from Lewis and let her know.
-Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Blair took any part in the discussion, and they
-altogether ignored Lewis’s existence. All the ingenuity in the world
-could not have devised anything more galling to Skelton.
-
-Then, Blair seemed not to be able to keep off the question of the races
-again, although no mention was made of the especial match between
-them. Elizabeth listened with an aching heart. What a trifle it was to
-Skelton, while to them it was the most tremendous event in the world.
-It might mean the turning of herself and Blair and her children out
-of house and home. But she gave no sign of this inward fear, speaking
-lightly, although she had a horrible feeling that Skelton knew how
-hollow their pretence was--that the money Blair had risked might
-have to be got by some occult means, for not another penny could be
-raised upon Newington. Presently Skelton rose and said good-by, Blair
-seeing him to the door and watching him as he stepped lightly into his
-curricle. Then Blair came back like a criminal to his wife.
-
-But Elizabeth had no reproaches to make. She was fluent enough when her
-feelings were not deeply touched, but under the influence of profound
-emotion she became perfectly silent. She was inapt at reproaches too;
-but Blair would cheerfully have preferred even the extraordinary
-wiggings that Mrs. Shapleigh gave her husband to the still and
-heart-breaking reproof of Elizabeth’s despairing, wordless look. He
-walked about the room for a few moments, while Elizabeth, with her work
-dropping from her listless hand, sat in fixed sadness.
-
-“By Jupiter, the horse _must_ win!” he cried excitedly, after a moment.
-“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, don’t look at me in that way!”
-
-Elizabeth made a desperate effort to rally.
-
-“How can I accuse you,” she said, “when I, too, am a coward before
-Richard Skelton? I ought to say: ‘We are desperately poor and in
-debt--we can’t afford to risk anything, no matter how promising the
-chances are, because we have nothing to risk. We are living now upon
-our creditors.’ Instead of that, I sit by and smile and say I have no
-fear, and profess to be willing. I am the greatest coward in the world.
-One word, just now, and the whole thing would have been off--but I did
-not say it. No, I am as much to blame in this as you are.”
-
-Skelton, driving home, concluded he would stop at Belfield. He was
-inwardly raging, as he always was at any slight upon Lewis Pryor. There
-was he, Mr. Skelton, of Deerchase, supposed to be the richest and most
-powerful man in the county, and yet he could not get a single family
-to recognise that boy--except at Belfield. Just as he was turning this
-over bitterly in his mind, he drove up to the door of the Belfield
-house. It was yet in the bright forenoon.
-
-Both Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh were at home. Skelton only stayed a few
-minutes, when, glancing out of the window, he saw Sylvia and Lewis
-Pryor sitting together in the little summerhouse on the bridge across
-the creek that separated the two plantations. Skelton rose.
-
-“I see Miss Shapleigh on the bridge, and if you will excuse me I will
-say good-day to you and join her.”
-
-Old Tom was excessively surprised.
-
-“Why,” said he, “you are paying us a monstrous short visit! I thought
-you had come especially to see me.”
-
-“Not at all,” said Skelton, “I called to pay my respects to the
-ladies,” and, with a bow, he walked out, and they saw him cross the
-lawn and follow the bridge to the summerhouse.
-
-“There, now, Mr. Shapleigh!” exclaimed Mrs. Shapleigh triumphantly,
-“wasn’t I a long-headed woman, to have that summerhouse built eighteen
-years ago for Richard Skelton and Sylvia to make love in?”
-
-“It’s the first time they’ve ever been in it since it was built, ma’am.”
-
-“Well, everything has to have a beginning, Mr. Shapleigh, though, of
-course, I know he never can marry my poor, beautiful girl.”
-
-“Yes, he can, Mrs. Shapleigh. If he chooses to pay several hundred
-thousand dollars for her, he can.”
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh, you talk very foolishly. What man alive, do you think,
-would pay that much to marry any woman? Though I will say, if any woman
-is worth it, Sylvia is the one, and she’s not half as good-looking as I
-was at her age, either.”
-
-“True, madam. But if one had half a million dollars to buy a wife with,
-he might have a good, long hunt before he found a woman like you, my
-own love.”
-
-“Now, Mr. Shapleigh, are you joking?”
-
-“I can’t hear you, my sweet,” responded Mr. Shapleigh cheerfully.
-“Every day I seem to get deafer and deafer, particularly to your voice.”
-
-“I notice you can hear some things well enough. When I say, ‘Mr.
-Shapleigh, we’ve got wild ducks for dinner to-day,’ you can hear as
-well as I can. And when I say, ‘Mr. Shapleigh, the moths have made
-ravages in the carpets,’ you always think I’m talking about cabbages in
-the garden, or something a thousand miles off. You ought to be treated
-for your deafness and have it cured.”
-
-“Don’t want to have it cured, ma’am.”
-
-Meanwhile, Skelton had joined Sylvia and Lewis in the summerhouse,
-which had been built expressly to harbour those two first named, but
-which, as Mr. Shapleigh truly said, had never held them together in
-their lives.
-
-Lewis was rather pleased at Skelton’s arrival. He fancied a kind of
-rivalry between Skelton and himself with Sylvia, and was immensely
-delighted at the notion of letting Skelton see how well he stood in
-Sylvia’s good graces. Sylvia, too, was not insensible to the honour
-of Skelton’s company, and sometimes wondered if--if--her surmises
-here became totally confused; but Skelton was undoubtedly the most
-charming man she had ever known, and a woman of Sylvia’s intelligence
-was peculiarly sensitive to his charm. On Skelton’s part, he felt
-profoundly grateful towards anybody who was kind to Lewis Pryor, and
-nothing could have brought Sylvia’s attractions more seductively
-before him than her kindness to the boy.
-
-Sylvia and Skelton grew so very friendly that Lewis, feeling himself
-slighted, stiffly said good-morning, and went back to Deerchase, when
-he got in his boat and sailed straight down the river, past Lone Point,
-and did not get back until the afternoon.
-
-Left alone together, the man and the woman suddenly felt a sensation
-of intimacy. It was as if they had taken up again that thread which
-had been broken off so many years ago. Skelton pointed to the spot on
-the shore where she had said good-bye to him on that gusty September
-evening.
-
-“There was where you kissed me,” he said. At this Sylvia coloured
-deeply and beautifully and took refuge in levity, but the colour
-did not die out of her face, and Skelton noticed that her eyelids
-fluttered. She was such a very innocent creature, that, in spite of her
-cleverness, he could read her like a book.
-
-Something impelled him to speak to her of Elizabeth Blair. “Good God!”
-he said, “that any human being should have the power to inflict the
-suffering on another that that woman inflicted on me nearly twenty
-years ago! And every time Conyers preaches about blessings in disguise
-I always think of that prime folly of my youth. Elizabeth Blair is good
-and lovely, but how wretched we should have been together. So I forgive
-her!” He did not say he forgave Blair.
-
-Sylvia looked at him gravely and sympathetically. Skelton was smiling;
-he treated his past agonies with much contempt. But women never feel
-contempt for the sufferings of the heart, and listen with delight to
-that story of love, which is to them ever new and ever enchanting.
-
-“How charming it must be to have had a great romance,” said Sylvia,
-half laughing and yet wholly earnest--“one of those tremendous
-passions, you know, that teaches one all one can know! I am afraid I
-shall never have one, unless dear little Lewis comes to the rescue.”
-
-“You will know it one day, and that without Lewis,” answered Skelton.
-“Some women are formed for grand passions, just as men come into the
-world with aptitude for great affairs.”
-
-“But how can I know it--here?” asked Sylvia impatiently. “See how
-circumscribed our lives are! I never knew it until lately, and then it
-came home to me, as it does every day, that the great, wide, beautiful,
-exciting world is not as far removed as another planet, which I used to
-fancy. But when I want to see the world, papa and mamma tell me they
-will take me to the Springs! That’s not the world. It is only a little
-piece of this county picked up and put down in another county.”
-
-Skelton was sitting on the bench by her. He watched her lovely,
-dissatisfied eyes as they glanced impatiently and contemptuously on the
-still and beautiful scene. Yes, it would be something to teach this
-woman how much there was beyond the mere beauty and plenty and ease of
-a country life in a remote provincial place. Sylvia caught his eyes
-fixed on her so searchingly that she coloured again--the blood that
-morning was perpetually playing hide and seek in her cheeks.
-
-Skelton went on in a strain rather calculated to foster than to soothe
-her impatience. He saw at once that he could produce almost any effect
-he wanted upon her, and that is a power with which men and women are
-seldom forbearing. Certainly Skelton was not. He loved power better
-than anything on earth, and the conquest of a woman worth conquering
-gave him infinite pleasure.
-
-He felt this intoxication of power as he watched Sylvia. Although he
-was not a vain man, he could almost have fixed the instant when she,
-who had been long trembling on the brink of falling in love with him,
-suddenly lost her balance. They had sat in the summerhouse a long time,
-although it seemed short to them. Their voices unconsciously dropped to
-a low key, and there were eloquent stretches of silence between them.
-The noon was gone, and they heard the faint sound of the bugle calling
-the hands to work in the fields after the midday rest. Sylvia started,
-and rose as if to go. Skelton, without moving, looked at her with a
-strange expression of command in his eyes. He touched the tips of her
-fingers lightly, and that touch brought her back instantly to his side.
-
-The secret contempt that a commonplace man feels for a woman who falls
-in love with him comes from a secret conviction that he is not worthy
-of it, however blatant his vanity and self-love may be. But Skelton,
-the proudest but the least vain of men, was instinctively conscious
-that a woman who fell in love with him was really in love with certain
-great and commanding qualities he had. His self-love spoke the language
-of common sense to him. He did not give up the fight so quickly and
-conclusively as the younger and more impressionable Sylvia did.
-Knowing of a great stumbling block in his way, he had guarded himself
-against vague, sweet fancies. But Skelton was too wise a man not to
-know that when the master passion appeared and said “Lo, I am here!” he
-is not to be dismissed like a lackey, but, willingly or unwillingly, he
-must be entertained. The great passions are all unmannerly. They come
-at inconvenient seasons without asking leave, and the master of the
-house must give place to these mighty and commanding guests. Women meet
-them obsequiously at the door; men remain to be sought by these lordly
-visitors, but do not thereby escape.
-
-As Skelton felt more and more the charm of Sylvia’s sweetness, the
-ineffable flattery of her passion for him, a furious dissatisfaction
-began to work in him. If only he were placed like other men! But if
-he should love, the only way he could satisfy it would be by endowing
-the Blairs, whom he hated from his soul, with all his dead wife’s vast
-fortune, or else proclaiming a certain thing about Lewis Pryor that
-would indeed make him rich, but make him also to be despised. Neither
-of these things could he bear to think of then. He was not yet so
-subjugated that pride and revenge could be displaced at once. But still
-he could not drag himself away from Sylvia. It was Sylvia, in the end,
-who broke away from him. She glanced at a little watch she wore, and a
-flood of colour poured into her face. She looked so guilty that Skelton
-smiled, but it was rather a melancholy smile. He thought that they were
-like two fair ships driven against each other to their destruction by
-vagabond winds and contrary tides.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIII.
-
-
-Every circumstance connected with the coming race meeting disgusted
-Bulstrode more and more. One night, sitting over the walnuts and the
-wine in the dining-room at Deerchase with Skelton and Lewis, Bulstrode
-gave vent to his dissatisfaction. He did not always dine with Skelton,
-and, indeed, when Bob Skinny’s emissary came to his door to say that
-dinner was served, Bulstrode would generally answer: “Oh, hang dinner!
-I had a chop in the middle of the day, and I’ll be shot if I’ll sit for
-two hours with Skelton over a lot of French kickshaws, with him looking
-superciliously at me every time I touch the decanter.” Bob Skinny
-would translate this message as follows: “Mr. Bulstrode, he present he
-compliments, sah, an’ he say, ef you will have de circumlocution to
-excuse him, he done had he dinner.”
-
-Lewis, though, always dined with Skelton and enjoyed it. Skelton was
-at his best at dinner, and would sometimes exert himself to please
-the boy, whose tastes were singularly like his own. Lewis liked the
-exquisitely appointed table, the sight of the flowers upon it, the
-subtile air of luxury pervading the whole. He liked to lie back in his
-chair, making his one small glass of sherry last as long as he could,
-looking out upon the black clumps of the shrubbery that loomed large
-in the purple twilight, listening to the soft, melodious ripple of the
-broad river, and to Skelton’s musical voice as he talked. It always
-vexed him when Miles Lightfoot was of the party, who was, however,
-under a good deal of restraint in Skelton’s presence.
-
-On this particular evening, though, Bulstrode was dining with Skelton
-and Lewis. The room was dim, for all the wax candles in the world
-could not light it brilliantly, and it was odorous with the scent of
-the blossoms of a dogwood tree that bloomed outside, and even thrust
-their bold, pretty faces almost through the window. But Bulstrode was
-undeniably cross, and uncomfortably attentive to the decanters.
-
-“And how did Jaybird do to-day, Lewis?” asked Skelton; but before Lewis
-could answer, Bulstrode burst out:
-
-“Jaybird go to perdition! Every time I think of him I remember that if
-the horse wins that race, Blair will be a ruined man. That is, he is
-more than half ruined already, but that will finish him.”
-
-“I shall be sorry, but I can’t see how anybody but Blair can be held
-responsible,” answered Skelton calmly. “If a man who can’t afford it
-_will_ follow horse racing, and if he _will_ put up a scrub against
-a thoroughbred, why, there’s no stopping him; that man has an inbred
-folly that must bring him to ruin some time or other. I don’t think
-this race, or any race especially, will effect the result. Blair has a
-passion for gambling on the turf, and that will ruin any man.”
-
-Lewis listened to this with a troubled face. Skelton’s eyes saw it,
-and he felt angry with Bulstrode for putting such things into the
-boy’s head. And besides, Lewis was only fifteen, and suppose his
-feelings should be worked upon to the extent that he should be guilty
-of the enormity of “pulling” the race? Skelton hastened to change the
-conversation.
-
-The dinner was shorter than usual that night, and Lewis had to gulp
-down the last half of his glass of wine rather hurriedly. Skelton went
-off as usual to a corner of the square stone porch and smoked steadily.
-To his surprise, Bulstrode followed him and sat down on a bench. After
-a while Bulstrode began, argumentatively:
-
-“I don’t see why you want to drive Blair to the wall.”
-
-Skelton took his cigar from his lips, and was silent with astonishment.
-Bulstrode never presumed to force himself into Skelton’s private
-affairs that way.
-
-“And,” continued Bulstrode, with his rich, beautiful voice full of
-tears, “he has that sweet and charming wife. Good God! Skelton, you
-must have a heart of stone!”
-
-Skelton’s impulse was to pick up a chair and brain Bulstrode on the
-spot, but instead, he only said coldly:
-
-“You have been drinking, Bulstrode. You can’t let a decanter pass you.”
-
-“Yes, I’ve been drinking,” cried Bulstrode, with a frank laugh; “but
-you know yourself I’m a much better and braver man drunk than sober.
-When I’m sober I’m cowed by that devilish cool gentlemanliness of
-yours; but when I’ve had a bottle of port I’m as good a man as you,
-Skelton; and I see that you will never be happy until you have made
-Blair the wretchedest man alive. Come, now. You’ve got lashings of
-money. Blair is as poor as a church mouse. You have got everything on
-earth.”
-
-Skelton had risen during this, and could scarcely keep his hands off
-Bulstrode where he sat; but it was grotesque enough that he could not
-make Bulstrode hold his tongue. He could only say between his teeth:
-
-“Drunken dog!”
-
-Bulstrode rose too at that, with a kind of dogged courage. “I am a
-drunken dog, I am!” he said; “but I am Wat Bulstrode, too; don’t forget
-that. Don’t forget that I know a great deal more out of books than you
-do. Don’t forget that you could hardly get another man who could fill
-my place. Don’t forget that I am more to you than all those thousands
-of volumes you’ve got in yonder. Don’t forget that I am Lewis Pryor’s
-guardian until he is one and twenty. You may regret that fact, but you
-can’t alter it. And, more than all--let me tell you--_I_ know all the
-very curious provisions of your wife’s will. You never condescended
-to ask me to keep silence, and I made you no promise. Drunken dog,
-indeed! And I could tell that which would turn this county bottom
-upwards! Suppose I were to tell Mrs. Blair to make herself easy; that
-those fools of lawyers made it so that one day, whether you die or
-marry, everything that was your wife’s goes to your heirs--and she is
-your heir, because you’ve got no other relations. And Lewis Pryor--ah,
-Skelton, how many clever men overreach themselves! I know, too, that
-so bunglingly did these legal fools their work, that if you could prove
-that you had a son at the time of your wife’s death, he would get the
-fortune. That fate was so desperately at work against common sense,
-that they forgot to put in whether he should be entitled to your name
-or not. But so cleverly have you made it appear that Lewis Pryor is the
-son of that lanky, sandy-haired tutor, that maybe you would have a hard
-time unravelling your own web. And so you think me a drunken dog, hey?
-All this I tell you is as clear as a bell in my--drunken mind, as you
-would call it.”
-
-Skelton’s face had turned blue with rage while Bulstrode was speaking;
-but there was no way to make him stop, except pounding him with the
-chair. And then, Skelton wanted to find out how much Bulstrode really
-knew. Yes, he knew it all. Well might Skelton hate Blair and pursue his
-ruin. Either the Blairs must happen, by the most fortuitous accident,
-to fall into a great fortune at his death, or else the stigma that he
-had so carefully removed, as far as the world knew, from Lewis must
-be published in two countries. Fury and dismay kept him silent, but
-Bulstrode actually quailed under his eye when once Skelton had fixed it
-on him. Skelton spoke after a little pause:
-
-“Your knowledge is entirely correct; and more, you are at liberty to
-proclaim it to the world any day you feel like it. The extraordinary
-part of it is that some wretch, as loose of tongue as you, has not
-by this time done so. It is a wonder that some creature, inspired
-by gratuitous ill-will towards that innocent boy, has not already
-published his shame. But the world, that is so forgiving and gentle
-to me, is already arrayed against him. The people in this county, for
-example, who seek the society of the owner of Deerchase, have condemned
-the innocent boy merely upon suspicion. It was so before I brought him
-here. No man or woman looked askant at me, but they put _him_ beyond
-the pale. Bah! what a world it is!”
-
-Bulstrode’s courage and swagger had abated all the time Skelton had
-been speaking. It never could stand up against Skelton’s coolness and
-determination. But some impulse of tenderness towards Lewis made him
-say:
-
-“You need not fear for one moment that I would harm the boy. I too love
-him. Unlike the world, I hold him to be innocent and you to be guilty.”
-
-“Pshaw!” answered Skelton contemptuously, “you will not do him any harm
-until your heedless tongue begins to wag, when, in pure idleness and
-wantonness, you will tell all you know. However, the fact that you are
-about the only person in the world who takes a true view of the case,
-saves me from kicking you out of doors. You must see for yourself I
-love that boy with the strongest, strangest affection. It has been my
-punishment, to suffer acutely at all the contumely heaped upon him; to
-yearn for the only thing I can’t give him--an equality with his kind;
-to feel like the cut of a knife every slight, every covert indignity
-put upon him. I tell you, had Blair and his wife done the simplest
-kind thing for that boy, I believe it would have disarmed me. But, no;
-they have flouted him studiously. Blair has never heard Lewis’s name
-mentioned before me without a look that made me want to have him by
-the throat; and in return, he shall be a beggar.” Skelton said this
-with perfect coolness, but it made a cold chill run down Bulstrode’s
-backbone. “The least kindness, the smallest gentleness, shown that
-boy is eternally remembered by me, and I have too little, too little
-to remember. And shall I overlook the insolence of the Blairs towards
-him? Ah, no. That is not like me. The strongest hold you have over me,
-Bulstrode, is because I know you love that boy, and it would distress
-him to part with you. But I think I have had as much of your company as
-I care for just now, so go.”
-
-Bulstrode went immediately.
-
-Skelton sat on the porch, or walked about it, far into the night, until
-his rage had cooled off. He had been subject to those tempests of still
-and almost silent passion all his life, and a fit of it invariably
-left him profoundly sad. The injustice to Lewis was inexpressibly
-hard to bear. He had all his life enjoyed so much power, prestige,
-and distinction, that the slightest contradiction was infinitely
-galling to him. One thing he had fully determined: the Blairs should
-not get that money. Rather would he proclaim Lewis’s birth to the
-world. But with a thrill of pride, as well as pain, he realised that
-it would cruelly distress the boy. Skelton knew Lewis’s disposition
-perfectly, and he knew the pride, the delicacy, the self-respect, that
-were already visible and would grow with the boy’s growth. He felt
-convinced that Lewis would never willingly barter what he supposed to
-be his respectable parentage for all the money in the world. And what
-would be the boy’s feelings towards _him_? Would not Lewis bear him a
-life-long hatred? And that suggestion which Bulstrode had thrown out
-about the difficulty of unravelling the story of Lewis’s birth, which
-Skelton had constructed with so much ingenuity, yes--it must be done in
-his lifetime; he would not trust anything to chance. The game was up,
-as far as the Blairs were concerned. And then he might, if he chose,
-marry Sylvia Shapleigh. She would perhaps awake his tired heart, for
-he had gone through with some experiences that had left weariness and
-cynical disgust behind them. But that the Blairs should ever have what
-might be Lewis’s, that they should profit by those fools of lawyers in
-England--Skelton almost swore aloud at the bare idea.
-
-He revolved these things in his mind as he sat perfectly still in the
-corner of the porch after his restlessness had departed.
-
-The moon rose late, but the round silver disc had grown bright before
-he stirred. He waked Bob Skinny, sleeping soundly on the back porch,
-to shut up the house, and went upstairs to his own rooms. As he passed
-through the upper hall he saw, to his surprise, Lewis Pryor sitting in
-the deep window seat, upon which the moonlight streamed.
-
-“You here?” asked Skelton, surprised, yet in his usual kindly voice.
-
-“Yes,” answered Lewis, perfectly wide awake, and looking somberly at
-Skelton in the ghostly light. “I couldn’t sleep for thinking of Mrs.
-Blair. I must win that race, and yet, if I do she will be unhappy, and
-that makes me unhappy. I wish we had never thought about the race, Mr.
-Skelton.”
-
-“Perhaps so,” said Skelton lightly; “but remember, when you are riding
-a race you are representing a great many persons. If you win the race,
-Mr. Blair will have lost some money; and if Hilary Blair wins, a great
-many persons who have backed you will lose money. It is the most
-dishonourable thing on earth to willfully lose a race.”
-
-Lewis sighed, and understood very well.
-
-“Come,” said Skelton good-naturedly, “it is time for youngsters like
-you to be in bed. It is nearly one o’clock.”
-
-Lewis crept off quite dolefully to his bed, while Skelton, sad at
-heart, remained standing before the open window, gazing at the
-glittering moon that silvered the lovely, peaceful, and tender
-landscape.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIV.
-
-
-The days that followed were days of torture to Elizabeth Blair. It was
-as if Blair could think of nothing but Alabaster and the famous match.
-It got out among the betting fraternity which infests every racing
-community that Blair had a superstitious faith in the black horse, and
-thereupon they beset him. Blair, in the coolest, most rational, and
-self-possessed way in the world, would give the most extraordinary
-odds, secretly goaded by the general disposition in favour of Jaybird.
-At home it seemed as if he had but one idea, and that was Alabaster. He
-was at the stables by dawn of day to see if the horse was all right,
-and the last thing he did at night was always to take a lantern and go
-into the horse’s stall and examine everything carefully.
-
-The creature, with tawny, vicious eyes, would back his ears and glare
-at him, pawing the ground and occasionally hitting a thundering blow
-with his hoof against the wooden partition of the stall. His coat was
-satin smooth. The black hostler declared solemnly: “Dat hoss, he see
-evils, I know he do. Sometimes, in de middle o’ de night, I heah him
-whinnyin’ an’ gwine on, an’ den he kick wid he hine foots; dat’s a sho’
-sign.”
-
-One night Blair came in the house, where Mrs. Blair sat in the dimly
-lighted drawing-room, with Mary and Hilary beside her listening to her
-sweet talk, and, coming up to her, said, with pale lips, “Alabaster is
-off his feed to-night.”
-
-Elizabeth felt no inclination to laugh. Alabaster’s appetite for his
-oats was of great importance to everybody at Newington then. Blair
-sat down heavily. His pallor and distress were so great that it moved
-Elizabeth to go to him and put her arms tenderly about him.
-
-“Dearest,” she said, “no matter how it goes, try--try--to give this up.
-See how much misery it has brought into our married life! It is well
-enough for men like Richard Skelton, to whom money is nothing, but to
-you it is different. Think of me--think of our children.”
-
-“Yes, I know,” answered Blair drearily. “Here am I, an educated man, a
-gentleman, and I swear I spend more time in the society of stablemen
-and jockeys than anywhere else. It has brought me and mine to beggary
-almost, and yet--and yet, if Alabaster wins, as he must, it would be a
-shame not to make some more money out of him; and if he does not, it
-will be the purest, cursedest luck in the world--the creature has got
-it in him.” And then Blair’s face softened, and he took her hand, and
-said; “Do you know, Elizabeth, there is for me no pleasure on earth
-so great as that of getting the better of Skelton? and for that you
-must thank your own sweet self. The only woman he ever wanted to marry
-I took away from him; the only sport he cares for I have sometimes
-got the better of him. Now he thinks to ruin me on the turf, but
-Alabaster’s swift feet will save us yet, my girl.”
-
-Elizabeth said nothing, but turned away, sighing.
-
-The strain upon Mrs. Blair’s mind reacted upon her body. She became
-weak and bloodless, and entirely lost her appetite. She went about,
-silent as to her sufferings, but deathly pale, and Blair noticed with
-alarm that she not only did not eat but could not sleep. She persisted
-gently that nothing ailed her, and would not agree to see a doctor; but
-Blair became more distressed every day at her pallor and weakness. One
-night, on opening his wife’s door, he saw her sitting at the window
-looking out into the dim, moonless night at the river that flowed
-darkly. Her attitude was so dejected that Blair was cut to the heart.
-
-“Elizabeth,” he said, “tell me--tell me, what is it that is wearing
-your life away?”
-
-“Alabaster,” answered Elizabeth, with a half smile.
-
-“He is destroying _my_ mind, I believe,” Blair replied gloomily enough.
-
-“Darling,” said Elizabeth after a pause, and putting her hands on
-Blair’s broad shoulders as he stood over her, “do you want to see me
-well, and fresh, and rosy once more?”
-
-“God knows I do,” responded Blair with energy.
-
-“Then--then--make me a promise.”
-
-“Oh, I know what you mean,” cried Blair with nervous impatience. “You
-mean to ask me to cringe to Skelton, and to abandon this match on some
-subterfuge or other, and manage it so that all bets will be declared
-off.” In a moment he added: “Forgive me, Elizabeth, but a harassed man
-is not responsible for every word he says.”
-
-Elizabeth had not opened her mouth, but her look was enough to bring an
-immediate apology.
-
-“What I do want--what would make me well--what would make me happy--is
-that you will promise me, after this, to give up racing. I have never
-asked this of you before, because I have not fully realised the
-terrible hold it had on you. But I tell you, in sober seriousness,
-that, beyond what you will bring upon yourself and our children, if
-this continues, I shall not live two years. My body is still strong,
-but my heart and my soul are both sick--sick--and I know that I could
-die of grief, and chagrin, and shame, and disappointment as readily
-as if I had been poisoned. I have struggled ever since you began this
-thing years ago, but lately I have yielded to despair. Now you can kill
-me or you can save my life.”
-
-Blair walked about the room with an agonised look on his fine,
-sunburned, expressive face. He believed every word that Elizabeth
-uttered. Presently he came up to her and cried:
-
-“Elizabeth, will you promise to live and be happy if I promise you
-never to start another horse in a race after this one--never to back
-another horse?”
-
-“Yes, I will give you my promise if you will give me yours.”
-
-“And,” continued Blair, with a smile that had more pain than mirth in
-it, “will you promise me to smile again, and to look as cheerful as you
-used to look when we were first married, and to get back that pretty
-colour that you once had in your cheeks? for I can’t stand such a
-woe-begone-looking wife another day.”
-
-“I will promise you to be so young, so beautiful, so gay, that you will
-be amazed at me. I will not only smile, but laugh. I will never be
-jealous any more.”
-
-“My dear, don’t say that,” said Blair, really smiling then; “you can’t
-any more help going into tantrums every time I look at a pretty girl
-than you can help breathing, and, besides, it diverts me very much.”
-
-“Very well, then; only promise. You know you have never broken your
-word to me, and your word is all I want.”
-
-“Then,” said Blair, after a pause, “I promise.”
-
-He was still smiling, but there were drops upon his forehead. He was
-not unprepared for this, but it was a crisis with him. Elizabeth
-overwhelmed him with sweet endearments. Blair said truly, that it was
-the beginning of their second honeymoon.
-
-Elizabeth bravely redeemed her promise. In one week a delightful
-change came over her. She tripped about the house singing. Her health
-returned with her spirits, and she regained in a few days what she had
-lost in as many weeks. Blair himself experienced a certain relief. He
-sat down one day and figured up the profits he had made out of his
-plantation within the time that he had kept his “horse or two,” and he
-was startled at the result. But for that “horse or two” he would have
-been a rich man. He anticipated some terrible struggles in the future
-against his mania, but if only Alabaster won--and he _must_ win--Blair
-would have accomplished his object. He would have got the better of
-Skelton, he would have won enough--in short, he would be just at the
-point where he could give up with dignity and comparative ease the
-sport that had so nearly ruined him.
-
-The eventful day came at last--the closing day of the spring meeting.
-There had been four days of racing in perfect May weather, with
-splendid attendance and a great concourse of strangers. Skelton’s
-stable had been very successful. Every day the two men met at the races
-and exchanged nods and a few words of ordinary courtesy. Sometimes
-Skelton drove over tandem; once he drove his four-horse coach, with
-Lewis Pryor on the box seat. He was always the observed of observers.
-
-Mrs. Blair, on one pretext or another, refrained from attending the
-course upon any of the first four days, albeit they were gala occasions
-in the county; but on the final day, when the great match was to be
-run, her high spirit would not allow her to stay at home. She knew
-perfectly well that the whole county understood how things were with
-them, for in patriarchal communities everybody’s private affairs are
-public property. They even knew that Blair had promised his wife that
-this should be the last--the very last--of his horse racing.
-
-The day was very bright even for the bright Southern spring, and there
-was a delicious crispness in the golden air. As Elizabeth leaned out
-of her window soon after sunrise the beauty and peace around her
-lightened her weary heart. Newington had long fallen into a picturesque
-shabbiness, to which Elizabeth was quite accustomed and did not feel
-to be a hardship. At the back of the house her window opened upon what
-had once been a prim garden with box hedges; but the hedge had grown
-into trees, and the flowers and shrubs had long ago forgotten to be
-prim. Violets, that are natural vagabonds and marauders, bloomed all
-over the garden. Of gaudy tulips, there were ranks of bold stragglers
-that flaunted their saucy faces in the cold east wind, which slapped
-them sharply. There was an arbour nearly sinking under its load of
-yellow roses, that bloomed bravely until the December snows covered
-them. Down the river the dark-green woods of Deerchase were visible,
-with an occasional glimpse of the house through the trees. The
-Newington house faced the river, and a great ill-kept lawn sloped
-down to the water. It was quite a mile across to the other shore, and
-the water was steely blue in the morning light, except where a line
-of bent and crippled alders on the shore made a shadowy place in the
-brightness. And this home, so dearly loved in spite of its shabbiness,
-she might have to leave. What was to become of them in that event
-neither she nor Blair knew. He understood but one way of making a
-living, and that was out of the ground. He was essentially a landed
-proprietor, and take him away from the land and he was as helpless as
-a child. He might, it is true, become manager of somebody’s estate,
-but that would be to step into a social abyss, for he would then be an
-overseer. In short, a landed man taken away from his land in those days
-was more helpless than could well be imagined.
-
-Down by the stable lot Elizabeth saw a commotion. Alabaster had been
-fed, and the hostler was bringing him out of his stall for his morning
-exercise. He came rather more amiably than usual. Blair and Hilary
-were both there. Elizabeth could see Blair’s tall figure outlined
-distinctly; he was standing meditatively with his hands in his pockets.
-Hilary watched the hostler put the saddle on Alabaster, then mounted,
-and rode off, the creature going along quietly enough.
-
-When Blair came in to breakfast he wore a look of peace that Elizabeth
-had not seen for a long time on his face. Elizabeth, on the contrary,
-for once had lost some of her self-control. She was pale and silent,
-and could scarcely force a smile to her lips when her husband gave her
-his good-morning kiss.
-
-“You look unhappy, Bess,” he said, “but I am more at ease than I have
-been for a long time. Come what may, this day I am a free man. Never
-since I grew hair on my face have I not been in slavery to horses and
-stablemen and jockeys and the whole gang. Of course, it is no easy
-thing to give this up; it has had its recompenses. I haven’t had many
-happier moments in my life than when Black Bess romped in ahead of
-Skelton’s Monarch that day so many years ago. In fact, the pleasure of
-beating Skelton has been one of the greatest seductions of the whole
-thing. But when he put his mind to it he could beat me. Now, however, I
-don’t propose to give him the chance again. That will be pretty hard on
-him, considering that he has poured out money like water to do it. From
-this day, my dear, I am no longer a racing man.”
-
-Elizabeth brightened at this. No matter what might come, there was no
-longer this terrible apprehension all the time of “debts of honour”
-hanging over them.
-
-Mrs. Blair, being naturally rather vain and very proud, would have
-liked a splendid costume to wear on this momentous occasion, and a
-coach and four to drive up to the grand stand in. But her very best
-gown was shabby, and her carriage was on its last legs. However she
-looked remarkably well on horseback, and there was Black Bess, retired
-from the turf, but yet made a very fine appearance under the saddle.
-She concluded that she would go on horseback, and Blair would ride with
-her.
-
-At one o’clock in the day the Campdown course was full, the grand
-stand crowded with all the gentry in the county, and everybody was
-on the tiptoe of expectation. It was no mere question of winning a
-race--it was whether Skelton would succeed in ruining Blair, or would
-Blair escape from Skelton. Skelton was on hand, having ridden over
-with Lewis. He was as cool, as distinguished looking, as immaculately
-correct as ever. People thought he had little at stake compared with
-Blair. But Skelton thought he had a great deal, for he had to have his
-vengeance then, or be robbed of it. He knew well enough that it was his
-last chance.
-
-Tom Shapleigh was there, and Mrs. Shapleigh and Sylvia, who looked
-remarkably pretty, and everybody in the county, even Bulstrode, who
-dreaded the catastrophe, but who could not forbear witnessing it.
-Skelton, with Lewis close by him, walked about the quarter stretch
-and infield. Everybody received him courteously, even obsequiously,
-for Skelton was their local great man. But nobody took the slightest
-notice of Lewis beyond a nod. The boy, with a bursting heart, realised
-this when he saw Hilary Blair surrounded by half a dozen boys of his
-own age, and being petted by the women and slapped on the back and
-chaffed by the older men.
-
-Presently they came to the Shapleigh carriage. Sylvia had been acutely
-conscious of Skelton’s presence ever since he drove into the enclosure;
-and she also had seen the contempt visited upon the boy, and her tender
-heart rebelled against it. As Skelton and Lewis came up she turned a
-beautiful rosy red, and, after having had her hand tenderly pressed
-by Skelton, she opened the carriage door and invited Lewis to take a
-seat and watch the first events. Skelton declined an invitation of the
-same kind for himself, and chose to stand on the ground and have Lewis
-monopolise the front seat in the great open barouche. Mrs. Shapleigh
-had joined in Sylvia’s cordial invitation, and so profoundly grateful
-was Skelton for it that he almost persuaded himself that Mrs. Shapleigh
-was not half such a fool after all. As for Sylvia, he thought her at
-that moment adorable; and there was certainly some distinction in her
-notice, because she was commonly counted to be the most spirited girl
-in the county, and one of the most admired, and Miss Sylvia had a quick
-wit of her own that could make her respected anywhere. Besides, old Tom
-was a man of consequence, so that the backing of the Shapleighs was
-about as good as anybody’s.
-
-Sylvia felt intensely sorry for Lewis, and sorry that she had ever
-sold Alabaster to Blair. The boy was very silent, and was wondering,
-painfully, for the hundredth time, why nobody ever noticed him
-scarcely. Sylvia tried to cheer him up. She pinned a rose from a
-bouquet she carried to his jacket. She even got out of the carriage
-and took a little stroll about the infield, with Lewis for an escort,
-leaving Skelton to the tender mercies of Mrs. Shapleigh. Sylvia knew
-well enough how to command civility for herself as well as for Lewis,
-and when people spoke to her she brought the boy in the conversation
-with a pointedness that could not be ignored. She returned after a
-while to the barouche with a light of triumph in her eyes. She had
-managed much better than Skelton, with all of his distinction and
-prestige, women being naturally much cleverer at social fence than men.
-Skelton could have kissed her hands in the excess of his gratitude. He
-smiled to himself as he thought: “How much more power have women than
-men sometimes! Here is this girl, that can circumvent the whole county,
-while I only fail in trying to bully it.”
-
-Everybody watched for the appearance of Jack Blair and Mrs. Blair, as
-the crowd waits for the condemned at an execution. At last they were
-seen entering the enclosure. Both of them were well mounted, and Mrs.
-Blair’s black habit fell against the satin coat of Black Bess. She
-wore a hat and feathers and sat her horse like a Di Vernon. A delicate
-pink was in her cheeks, and her eyes, which were usually soft, were
-sparkling. If Skelton or anybody else expected her to show any signs of
-weakness, they were much mistaken. Blair was at his best on horseback,
-and he had become infected by his wife’s courage. As they rode into the
-infield they were greeted cordially, Skelton coming up, hat in hand,
-to make his compliments to Mrs. Blair, who stopped her horse quite
-close to the Shapleigh carriage. The women spoke to each other affably.
-Lewis was still in the carriage as Skelton moved off. Mrs. Blair at
-that moment regretted as keenly as Sylvia that Alabaster had ever been
-heard of.
-
-Old Tom was there then, all sympathy and bluff good-nature. He felt
-sorry for Mrs. Blair, and wanted to show it.
-
-“How d’ye do, Mrs. Blair? Deuced brave woman you are to trust yourself
-on that restless beast!” for Black Bess, irritated by the people
-pressing about her, threw her head in the air and began to dance about
-impatiently.
-
-“Why, this is the very safest creature in the county,” answered Mrs.
-Blair, patting her horse’s neck to quiet her. She was so smiling, so
-calm, that Tom Shapleigh was astounded.
-
-“Look here, ma’am,” he cried, “you’re a mighty fine woman”--and then
-stopped awkwardly. Mrs. Blair fully appreciated the situation, and
-Black Bess, just then showing symptoms of backing into Mrs. Shapleigh’s
-lap, a reply was avoided. Sylvia uttered a little cry, as Black Bess’s
-hind feet scraped against the wheel and her long black tail switched
-about uncomfortably in the carriage.
-
-“Don’t be afraid,” cried Mrs. Blair, with sarcastic politeness, “I can
-manage her.”
-
-“I hope so,” devoutly answered Sylvia; and old Tom asked:
-
-“Blair, why do you let your wife ride that restless creature?”
-
-“Because I can’t prevent her,” answered Blair, laughing. “When
-Mrs. Blair wants Black Bess saddled she has it done. I’m the most
-petticoated man in the county.”
-
-At which Mrs. Blair laughed prettily. The hen-pecked men are never the
-ones who parade the fact openly.
-
-The scene was very animated. The sun shone hotly upon the white track
-and the tramped infield and the crowds of carriages and horsemen.
-The women wore their gayest dresses, and in those days men were not
-confined to sombre black, and claret-coloured coats and blue coats and
-bottle-green coats were common enough. Skelton did not wholly devote
-himself to Sylvia, although Lewis still kept his place opposite her,
-but went about shaking hands with the men and making himself unusually
-agreeable to the women. In spite of the general knowledge that Skelton
-would lose the main part of his fortune if he married again, he was
-still an object of interest to the feminine contingent, who knew that
-Skelton was a good deal of a man whether he had a great fortune or not.
-He never went into the society of women, though, that he did not feel
-that bond of the dead woman upon his liberty. He loved his liberty so
-dearly, that not even that splendid fortune could wholly make up for
-it; he wanted all of the power of money, but he wanted to be as free
-as other men were; and as it was, he was not free, but a slave. And
-he had so much, that a crumpled rose-leaf troubled him. He could have
-made Lewis Pryor his heir, and he could have married Sylvia Shapleigh
-and have been rich and happy at Deerchase, but that would involve
-putting a stain upon Lewis; and that was the worst thing in the world
-except one--letting the Blairs have the money. But some day it must
-come; and he caught himself debating, in the intervals of talk with
-men and women, that, after all, he might not make a bad exchange--his
-fortune for Sylvia. As a matter of fact, his money, beyond a certain
-expenditure, did him very little good. He had all the books he
-wanted--more than were good for him, he sometimes suspected. He had
-some pictures and curios, but in those days the art of collecting was
-practically unknown. Of course, money implied a mastery of conditions,
-and that was the breath of his nostrils; but conditions could be
-mastered with less money than he had. If only Lewis could be spared
-the shame awaiting him! Skelton’s eye sought him occasionally, as he
-still sat in the Shapleighs’ barouche. Sylvia looked lovely to him then
-because she was so sweet to Lewis. Mrs. Blair, too, was watched by
-Skelton, and he was forced to admire her perfectly indomitable pluck.
-It was far superior to her husband’s, who, after a brave effort to
-appear unconcerned as the saddling bell rung in the last race, finally
-dashed off, and, jumping his horse over the fence, disappeared amid
-the crowd of men in the paddock. Elizabeth gave a quick glance around,
-and for an instant a sort of anguish appeared in her expressive eyes.
-But in the next moment she was again easy, graceful, unconcerned. One
-would have thought it a friendly match between her boy and Lewis Pryor
-on their ponies. Lewis had then disappeared, of course, but by some
-odd chance Skelton was close to Mrs. Blair. He saw that she was in a
-passion of nervousness, and he had pity enough for her to move away
-when the horses were coming out of the paddock and the boys were being
-weighed. But just then Blair rode up to his wife’s side. His face
-was flushed, and he had a triumphant ring in his voice as he said to
-Elizabeth, while looking at Skelton sharply:
-
-“The boy is all right. I saw the horse saddled myself, and Hilary knows
-what to do in any emergency.”
-
-Skelton knew perfectly well, when Blair said “the boy is all right,”
-he meant the horse was all right. Blair’s face was menacing and
-triumphant; he began to talk to Skelton, who at once took it as a
-challenge to stay. Blair thought Skelton bound to lose, and those
-savage instincts that still dwell in every human breast came uppermost.
-At the moment, he wanted to enjoy his triumph over Skelton. Exactly the
-same thoughts burned in Skelton’s mind. An impulse of pity would have
-made him spare Mrs. Blair the pain of his presence, but he could feel
-no pity for Blair.
-
-The two horses were now prancing before the grand stand. Jaybird was
-a magnificent, clean-limbed bay, with an air of equine aristocracy
-written all over him. He was perfectly gentle, and even playful,
-and apparently knew quite well what was up. Lewis, his dark boyish
-face flushed, cantered him past the grand stand, and to the starting
-post, where Jaybird stood as motionless as a bronze horse. But not
-the slightest welcome was accorded Lewis Pryor. Not a cheer broke the
-silence, until old Tom Shapleigh, in his strident voice, sent up a
-great “Hurrah!” A few faint echoes followed. But one handkerchief was
-waved, and that was in Sylvia Shapleigh’s hand. Skelton, whose feelings
-during this could not be described, observed that Sylvia’s eyes were
-full of tears. The cruel indifference of the world then present was
-heart-breaking. Lewis, with his face set, looked straight before him,
-with proud unconsciousness even when a storm of applause broke forth
-for Hilary Blair.
-
-Alabaster’s behaviour was in total contrast to Jaybird’s well-bred
-dignity. He came out of the paddock kicking and lunging, and only the
-most perfect horsemanship on Hilary’s part kept him anywhere within
-bounds. The applause seemed to madden him; he reared, then came down on
-his front feet, trembling in every limb, not with fear but with rage.
-But, as Blair had said, he might as well try to throw a grasshopper as
-Hilary. The boy’s coolness and admirable management only caused the
-more applause, and this still more excited the black horse. Hilary
-was forced to give him a turn half way around the course to bring him
-down. During all this, poor Lewis sat like a statue at the starting
-post. Jaybird had had his warming-up gallop before, and Lewis felt that
-it would be like an effort to divide the applause of the crowd if he
-showed the bay off during Alabaster’s gyrations. But what would he not
-have given for some of the kind glances that were showered upon Hilary!
-
-Mr. and Mrs. Blair were still close to the Shapleighs, and Skelton was
-standing between them and the carriage. He glanced towards Sylvia and
-saw the troubled look in her eyes.
-
-“Are you losing faith in your young admirer?” asked Skelton, smiling,
-and moving a step towards the carriage.
-
-“No,” answered Sylvia, “but--but--why did I ever let Mr. Blair have
-Alabaster! Perhaps I have done him the greatest injury of his whole
-life.”
-
-“No, you have not,” replied Skelton, in his musical, penetrating
-voice, which Blair, whose attention was abnormal that day, could hear
-distinctly; “you have probably done that which will cure Mr. Blair of
-racing the entire rest of his life.”
-
-Blair heard the reply and surmised the question. He smiled insultingly
-at Skelton, who, however, possessed in perfection the power to appear
-unconcerned when he wished it.
-
-The two horses were now at the post, and the starter was making his
-way towards his place. There was an intense, suppressed excitement
-following the cheering that kept the whole crowd silent. Nearly
-everybody present had something on one horse or the other; and then,
-they all knew that it was more than a match between Jaybird and
-Alabaster--it was a life-and-death contest between Blair and Skelton.
-But then the starter was in place and was trying to get the horses off.
-Skelton longed to call Lewis to the fence and give him a few last words
-of advice, but as Blair did not speak to Hilary he could not bring
-himself to show less want of confidence in Lewis.
-
-Hilary had the inside place. There was great difficulty in starting
-the horses, owing to Alabaster’s ill humour, and they were turned back
-half a dozen times. Each time Elizabeth’s heart grew fainter. Alabaster
-was becoming more wildly excited, and the bright gleam of the bit,
-as he champed it, throwing his head about fiercely, could plainly be
-seen. He had a way of getting the bit between his teeth, when he would
-stop short in his course and indulge in every wickedness known to
-horseflesh. If he ever began those performances after the flag fell he
-was gone. The Blairs watched, in the dazzling sunlight, Hilary stroking
-the horse’s neck, saying encouraging words and trying to keep him down.
-At last, when they were turned back for the fourth time, Alabaster
-ducked his head, and, raising his forefoot, brought it down with a
-crash on the rickety fence that separated the track from the infield.
-Elizabeth trembled visibly at that, and Blair ground his teeth. That
-pawing performance was always the beginning of the horse’s most violent
-tantrums.
-
-Jaybird, who was well bred as well as thoroughbred, was in agreeable
-contrast to Alabaster. He was perfectly manageable, although eager, and
-showed not the slightest temper or nervousness.
-
-At last a cheer rose. They were off. Skelton had had his horse brought,
-and had mounted so as to see the course better. Old Tom Shapleigh stood
-up in the barouche for the same purpose. The race was to be once around
-the mile-and-a-quarter track, with four hurdles and two water jumps. As
-soon as the horses were fairly started Alabaster began to lag sullenly.
-He had got the bit between his teeth and was champing it furiously, the
-foam flowing in all directions. Jaybird had taken the inside track, and
-was going along easily. He could win in a canter if that sort of thing
-was kept up. Still, Hilary did not touch Alabaster with either whip or
-spur. “Great God!” cried old Tom, who had some money on Alabaster, to
-nobody in particular, “why doesn’t the boy give him the spur?”
-
-“Because,” said Mrs. Blair in a sweet, composed voice, “he is in a
-temper, and to be touched with a spur would simply make him more
-unmanageable than he is now. My son knows what to do, you may depend
-upon it.”
-
-Elizabeth was scarcely conscious of what she was saying, but nobody
-should find fault with Hilary then. Skelton, chancing to meet her
-glance at that moment, mechanically raised his hat. There was a woman
-for you! Blair leaned over and grasped the pommel of his wife’s saddle,
-as if to steady himself. He was ashy pale and trembling in every limb.
-
-There were two hurdles before the water jump. Alabaster did not refuse
-either hurdle, but at the water jump he swerved for an instant, only
-to take it the next moment. Hilary still showed the most wonderful
-self-possession; and as for Lewis Pryor, his intelligence in letting
-the sulky horse set the pace was obvious. Nevertheless, he was wary,
-and was drawing ahead so gradually that Jaybird actually did not
-feel the strain upon him. He had taken all three jumps like a bird.
-Alabaster was running along, his head down and his ears backed. The
-thousands of people with money on him watched him with a kind of
-hatred. One old fellow, who had perched himself on the fence, took off
-his battered beaver, and, as Alabaster passed him, he suddenly threw
-the old hat full at the horse, shouting, “Run, you rascal, run!”
-
-Blair, who saw and heard it across the field, uttered a slight groan;
-Elizabeth grew, if anything, more ghastly pale than before. They both
-thought the horse would stop then and there and begin his rearing and
-pitching. The effect, though, was exactly the contrary. Alabaster
-suddenly raised his head, cocked his ears, and went in for the race.
-Blair gave a gasp, and the crowd another cheer; now there was going to
-be a race in earnest.
-
-The horse lengthened his stride, and the bit, which he had hitherto
-held on to viciously, slipped back into his mouth. Hilary touched
-him lightly with the spur, and in half a dozen strides he was up to
-Jaybird, who was still going steadily.
-
-Skelton was afraid that Lewis would lose his head and go blundering at
-the hurdles. But he did not; he lifted the horse over them beautifully,
-a little in advance of Alabaster, who went at them furiously, and
-knocked them both down. It was neck and neck to the water jump. Both
-horses were then flying along. Alabaster’s black coat was as wet as if
-he had been in the river, but Jaybird gave no sign of distress. As they
-neared the jump, Alabaster increased his stride superbly. It was plain
-what Jaybird could do, but it was a mystery still how much speed the
-half-bred horse had. Alabaster rushed at the water jump as if he were
-about to throw himself headlong into it, and cleared it with a foot to
-spare; Jaybird followed a moment after. His hind feet slipped as he
-landed on the other side, and it was a half minute before he recovered
-his stride. Alabaster was then three lengths ahead, and Hilary was
-giving him whip and spur mercilessly. Nothing that Jaybird had yet
-showed could overcome those three lengths at the magnificent rate the
-black horse was going.
-
-The crowd burst into a mighty shout: “Alabaster wins! Alabaster!
-Alabaster!”
-
-Blair experienced one of the most delicious moments of his life then.
-He turned and looked Skelton squarely in the eye. He said not a word,
-but the look was eloquent with hatred and triumph. Skelton faced
-him as quietly as ever. Blair turned his horse’s head; the race was
-his--Newington was saved--_he_ was saved!
-
-“Mr. Blair,” said Skelton, at that instant, in his peculiar musical
-drawl, and with a smile that showed every one of his white, even teeth,
-“your boy is down.”
-
-Blair glanced towards the track, and the sight seemed to paralyse
-him. Alabaster was rolling over, struggling violently, with both
-forelegs broken and hanging. He had slipped upon a muddy spot, and
-gone down with frightful force. It was terrible to see. Hilary was
-lying perfectly limp on the ground, some distance away. The people were
-yelling from sheer excitement, and in a second a crowd had run towards
-the prostrate horse and boy. Blair found himself, he knew not how,
-on the spot. Some one shouted to him: “He’s alive--he breathes--he’s
-coming to!”
-
-Before waiting to hear more about Hilary, Blair ran up to the
-struggling horse, and, with the savage instinct that had seemed
-to possess him all along regarding the creature, stamped his foot
-violently a dozen times in its quivering flank. The horse, half dead,
-sank back and ceased its convulsive efforts, fixing its glazing eyes
-on Blair with a dumb reproach. Blair, struck with shame and horror and
-remorse at his action, knelt down on the ground and took the horse’s
-head in his arms.
-
-“My poor beauty!” he cried, “my poor beauty!”
-
-Mrs. Blair had sat bolt upright in her saddle, looking before her with
-unseeing eyes, until Blair kicked the dying horse; then, without a
-word or a cry, she fell over. Skelton caught her in his arms. He laid
-her down upon the grass, and Sylvia Shapleigh, jumping out of the
-carriage, ran to her. People crowded around. Here was a tragedy for the
-Blairs with a vengeance--Hilary perhaps killed, Blair ruined and making
-a brute of himself before the whole county, and Mrs. Blair falling
-insensible. It was ten minutes before she opened her eyes, and then
-only when Lewis Pryor, making his way through the people surrounding
-her, threw himself beside her and cried, “Dear Mrs. Blair, it was not
-my fault; and he is alive! he is alive!”
-
-The boy’s dark face was grimed with dust and tears. As Skelton looked
-at him, the feeling that it might have been Lewis who was thrown made
-him long to open his arms and hold the boy to his heart. But he did
-not; he only gave him a slight pat on the shoulder. Lewis was crying a
-little, completely overcome by the excitement. Everybody, particularly
-those who had lost money on Alabaster, scowled at him. But Sylvia
-Shapleigh, drawing the boy towards her, took her own white handkerchief
-and wiped his eyes, and entreated him to control himself. Skelton, on
-seeing that, vowed that, if ever he married, it would be to Sylvia
-Shapleigh.
-
-Mrs. Blair, although more than half conscious by that time, yet could
-not take it all in. She seemed to be lingering on the borders of a dim
-world of peace and sweet forgetfulness, and she dreaded to come back
-to the pain and stress from which she had just escaped for a moment or
-two. All at once everything returned to her with a rush. She saw Hilary
-go down. She saw Blair’s furious and insane action. She uttered a groan
-and opened her eyes, which at once fell on Skelton’s.
-
-It was one of the most painful moments of Skelton’s whole life. He did
-not relish taking vengeance on a woman.
-
-Mrs. Blair, as if inspired by a new spirit, sat up, and disdaining
-Skelton’s arm, and even Mrs. Shapleigh’s or Sylvia’s, rose to her feet.
-Just then Blair came up. In ten minutes he had aged ten years. He had
-had a crazy moment or two, but now he was deadly calm and pale.
-
-“The boy is all right,” he said. As a matter of fact, Hilary was far
-from all right, but Blair did not intend to tell Mrs. Blair then. “Mr.
-Bulstrode has already put him in his chaise, and will take him home. Do
-you feel able to ride home?”
-
-Sylvia and Mrs. Shapleigh and old Tom at once offered the barouche.
-Skelton had withdrawn a little from the group, to spare Mrs. Blair the
-sight of him.
-
-Mrs. Blair declined the carriage rather stiffly. She was a
-strong-nerved though delicately made woman, and she meant to go through
-with it bravely.
-
-“No,” she said, “I will ride.”
-
-Something in her eye showed all of them, including Blair, that it was
-useless to protest. Her husband swung her into the saddle, and she
-gathered up the reins in her trembling hands. Meanwhile her eye fell
-upon Lewis, standing by Sylvia Shapleigh, his eyes still full of tears.
-
-“Please forgive me, Mrs. Blair,” he said.
-
-“There is nothing to forgive,” she answered, feeling, in the midst of
-her own distress, the acutest sympathy for the lad; “it was purely an
-accident. I hope you will come to see Hilary.”
-
-Lewis thanked her, with tears in his voice as well as his eyes.
-
-Mr. and Mrs. Blair rode off the field together. People gave them all
-the room they wanted, for they were encompassed with the dignity of
-misfortune. They did not take the main road, which was full of people
-in gigs and chaises and carriages and on horseback, all talking about
-the Blairs’ affairs and Skelton and everything connected with them.
-They took a private road through the woods that led to the Newington
-lane. Mrs. Blair did not know whether Alabaster were dead or alive.
-
-“What has become of the horse?” she asked presently.
-
-“Shot,” replied Blair briefly.
-
-Mrs. Blair looked at him intently, to see what effect this had on him,
-but strangely enough his face wore a look of relief, and his eyes had
-lost the hunted expression they had worn for months.
-
-“But I thought you loved that horse so--so superstitiously.”
-
-“So I did. It was a madness. But it is past. I am a free man now.
-If the horse had lived and had won the race, sometimes--sometimes I
-doubted if I could have kept my word. But it is easy enough now. We
-are ruined, Elizabeth; that’s what running away with Jack Blair has
-brought you to, but after this you can never reproach me again with
-racing. It has been your only rival; and I tell you, my girl, it is you
-that has made Skelton and me hate each other so.”
-
-What woman could be insensible to the subtile flattery contained in
-such language at such a time? Elizabeth at that instant forgave Blair
-every anxiety he had made her suffer during all their married life, and
-professed a perfect willingness to run away with him again under the
-same circumstances. One thing was certain, she could believe what Blair
-told her; he never lied to her in his life, and his word was as dear to
-him as his soul.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XV.
-
-
-Lewis Pryor was in the greatest distress over the result of the match,
-and in riding back to Deerchase, by Skelton’s side, he was the most
-doleful boy that ever was seen. Skelton was in a violent fury over the
-treatment accorded the boy, and felt like marrying Sylvia Shapleigh out
-of hand and establishing her at Deerchase for the purpose of spiting
-the other women in the county.
-
-Next morning Lewis asked Bulstrode if he might ride over to Newington
-to inquire after Hilary and Mrs. Blair.
-
-“Deuced if I know,” answered Bulstrode. “I haven’t the least objection;
-but you’d better ask Mr. Skelton.”
-
-Lewis, without saying a word to Skelton, got on his pony and rode to
-Newington. Blair met him at the door, and for the first time he laid
-aside the freezing air he had always maintained towards the boy and was
-extremely cordial. Hilary was far from all right; the horse had rolled
-on him, and it would be some time yet before they could tell how badly
-hurt he was. Mrs. Blair felt better, but was a good deal shaken by the
-shock. Lewis was so overcome at this that Blair felt sorry for the boy,
-and said:
-
-“However, come in the house. Mrs. Blair would like to see you; and
-Hilary, too, if he is able.”
-
-Lewis walked into the house for the first time in his life, and sat
-down alone in the drawing-room. In a few moments Blair came to fetch
-him, and conducted him to Hilary’s room. Mrs. Blair sat by the bed
-on which Hilary lay, and as soon as Lewis entered she rose and went
-towards him with much sweetness of manner. Hilary, too, welcomed him
-feebly. Poor Lewis could hardly refrain from tears. He felt himself the
-author of more grief and pain to other people than anybody in the whole
-world. And he even envied Hilary, lying helplessly in the bed. His
-mother watched him fondly; his father sat by him--and it was always a
-pretty sight to see Blair with his children; while little Mary promised
-Hilary that, if he should be a cripple for life, she would abandon all
-ideas of matrimony and devote her life to him. The little girl, who was
-uncommonly pretty, was disposed to regard Lewis as an enemy, but was
-finally coaxed into magnanimity, and even condescended to sit on his
-knee.
-
-When Lewis rose to go, Mrs. Blair accompanied him to the door. He
-made her a thousand earnest apologies, to which Mrs. Blair replied
-generously. Even Blair himself was kind to the boy, who left them with
-an overflowing heart. Hilary had asked him to come again, and both Mr.
-and Mrs. Blair had repeated the invitation.
-
-Skelton, sitting at Deerchase in the library, was triumphant, but
-far from happy. Towards noon he missed Lewis, and happening across
-Bulstrode in the stone porch, he inquired for the boy.
-
-“Don’t know,” answered Bulstrode, adding, with a grin: “He asked me
-about going to Newington. I told him I had no objection, and advised
-him to ask you--and by the Lord Harry! I shouldn’t be surprised if he
-had gone.”
-
-A very little inquiry showed that Newington was precisely where Lewis
-had gone. Bulstrode was secretly much amused.
-
-“Birds of a feather--Skelton and Lewis. The boy is giving him a dose of
-his own medicine.”
-
-All Skelton said was to direct the servants immediately upon Lewis’s
-arrival to let him know.
-
-When Lewis appeared he was met by Bob Skinny, who directed him
-mysteriously to “de libery. An’ Mr. Skelton, he f’yarly sizzlin’, he so
-mad.”
-
-Lewis walked into the library quite coolly. Skelton wheeled around and
-said, in a voice very unlike his usual almost caressing tone:
-
-“Have you been to Newington, Lewis?”
-
-“Yes, sir,” answered Lewis calmly.
-
-“I considered it unnecessary to tell you not to go, as you know, of
-course, the relations between Mr. Blair and myself are not cordial; and
-it never occurred to me that you would go off in this manner, in direct
-defiance of what you know must be my wishes.”
-
-“I asked Mr. Bulstrode, sir,” answered Lewis in a very soft, composed
-voice. “He told me he had no objection. It’s true he advised me to ask
-you; but Mr. Bulstrode is my guardian, and when I have his permission I
-don’t need anybody else’s, sir.”
-
-Lewis had in perfection Skelton’s trick of expressing the utmost
-defiance in the most moderate tone. There was nothing approaching
-insolence in his manner, but a perfect knowledge of his rights and a
-determination to stand upon them. Skelton was entirely at a loss for a
-moment or two. He had not the slightest means of enforcing obedience
-from the boy, except a threat of sending him away from Deerchase, and
-he suspected that was just what would have pleased Lewis best. But he
-spoke in a tone of stern command that he had never used towards the boy
-before.
-
-“Mr. Bulstrode seems to have had the right conception of the respect
-you owe me,” he said, after a pause, “but I find you did not heed his
-very rational advice. Now, understand me distinctly: I do not intend
-that you shall go to Newington, and I shall find means to enforce my
-wishes.”
-
-Lewis bowed and went out. He could not disregard anything so positive
-as that.
-
-But after Lewis had gone out and Skelton was left alone with his anger,
-he could not but feel proud of the boy’s spirit and independence, as
-well as his shrewdness in getting Bulstrode’s half permission. It was
-no ordinary boy that could coolly go against Skelton’s wishes and then
-so aptly justify himself. Skelton felt proud of Lewis’s spirit even
-when it was directed against himself.
-
-Hilary Blair did not get well at once--indeed, it looked at one time
-as if he would never get well at all. Then, there was an execution out
-against Blair, and, altogether, the affairs of the family seemed to be
-about as desperate as could be. Conyers need no longer preach sermons
-against horse racing. Jack Blair’s case was an object lesson that was
-worth all the sermons ever preached. Still Conyers felt it his duty to
-add warning to warning, and he gave his congregation another discourse
-against gambling and betting of all sorts that was received much more
-respectfully than the former one. Even old Tom Shapleigh forgot to
-scoff. It is true that remorse, or rather regret, had much to do with
-old Tom’s feelings. But for that unlucky horse, which he had so proudly
-exhibited to Blair, and that equally unlucky agreement to leave the
-matter to Sylvia, when Blair could always talk the women around, he
-would not have been minus a considerable sum of money. Sylvia herself
-endured all the distress that a tender and sensitive soul would suffer
-who had, however innocently, become a contributor to such a tragedy.
-
-“I wish I had poisoned the horse,” groaned old Tom.
-
-“I wish so, too,” devoutly added Sylvia.
-
-“I’m sure I’m sorry Mr. Blair lost his money; but you know, Mr.
-Shapleigh, poisoning horses is a great sin,” remarked Mrs. Shapleigh.
-
-Old Tom reformed so far as to again attend the vestry meetings, and to
-lower his voice while he talked horse to his fellow-vestrymen.
-
-The consideration with which Skelton and Bulstrode treated the
-poor harassed clergyman sensibly improved his relations with the
-congregation, which did not like him any better, but who treated him
-more respectfully. But they were all just as fond of morality and
-shy of religion as ever, except Sylvia Shapleigh. She and Conyers
-occasionally talked together on the great subject, but neither
-could enlighten the other. They were like two travellers meeting
-in the desert without map or compass--they could only tell of their
-loneliness, their struggles, their terrible ignorance of which way lay
-the road to light.
-
-Bulstrode, upon whose movements Skelton never attempted to place any
-restrictions, went over to Newington occasionally, and was nearly
-broken-hearted by all he saw. He came back, and his mind dwelt
-constantly on Mrs. Blair and her troubles. He began to long that he
-might tell her not to despair--that there was still a great chance
-in store for her--that one day she, or perhaps her children after
-her, might have a fortune that would make them the richest people in
-the county; for Bulstrode had spoken truly when he said that he had
-very grave doubts whether Skelton himself could unravel the web he
-had so carefully woven about Lewis Pryor’s identity. And his object
-in so doing--to deprive the Blairs of what might come to them, by an
-extraordinary conjunction of circumstances--was of itself open to
-suspicion. Bulstrode knew that in England the Blairs’ expectations,
-even though saddled with uncertainties, would be worth something
-in ready money, where ready money was plentiful; but in this new
-country, where money was the dearest and scarcest of all products, he
-doubted if a penny could be realised upon even a very great fortune in
-perspective. He thought over these things until his brain was nearly
-addled.
-
-One night in June, while Hilary was still ill, and the Blairs were
-liable to be dispossessed at any moment, Bulstrode went over to
-Newington. It had lately stormed, and the warm night air was full of
-the fragrance of the summer rain. The dripping trees along the road
-were odorous, and the wild honeysuckle and the great magnolia blossoms
-were lavish of perfume. The river and all the homesteads were perfectly
-still; and the only sound, as Bulstrode walked up the weedy drive to
-the Newington house, was the occasionally monotonous cry of a night
-bird or the soft flutter of bats’ wings through the darkness.
-
-Mrs. Blair was sitting in the dimly lighted drawing-room with one of
-Scott’s novels on her lap. She heard Bulstrode’s step on the porch, and
-rose to meet him as he entered the room. She looked pale and depressed.
-
-“Ah, romance, romance,” said Bulstrode, picking up the book. “You dear,
-sweet, innocent-minded creatures live on it.”
-
-“Yes,” answered Mrs. Blair, smiling a little. “It helps us over the
-stony part of the road. I have been with my boy all day, and I found I
-wanted a tonic for my mind; so I took up this book, and actually forgot
-my poor Hilary for a few moments.”
-
-“Is the boy improving, ma’am?”
-
-“I am afraid not. He cannot yet leave his bed. His father and I are
-with him all the time, one or the other. Do you know, Mr. Bulstrode,
-I never realise what an admirable man my husband is until I see him
-with his children. If you but knew how tender and interesting and
-even fascinating he is to them! And if only Hilary--gets well--” Mrs.
-Blair’s voice broke. “Ah, Mr. Bulstrode, I fear so much--I fear--he
-will never be well--although--I try--”
-
-Mrs. Blair burst unexpectedly into tears. This nearly distracted
-Bulstrode. He took out his handkerchief and fairly blubbered, saying
-between gasps:
-
-“Now, pray don’t, my dear Mrs. Blair--my sweet, sweet creetur’--”
-Bulstrode’s grief was inexpressibly ludicrous.
-
-But after a moment or two Mrs. Blair recovered herself and apologised
-for her sudden weakness.
-
-“I have had much to try me,” she said, “and then the prospect of being
-turned out of this place--”
-
-“Have you made any arrangements to go elsewhere?” asked Bulstrode.
-
-Mrs. Blair shook her head. “My husband would not ask it of his
-creditors, but it would be to his advantage if he were allowed to
-remain at Newington. He has really done wonderfully well here, and has
-made crops that were much better than any his father ever made off the
-place. It has all gone, of course, on the Campdown track--but still the
-money was made; and now that my husband is done with the turf forever,
-I believe in a few years’ time he could be on his feet again.”
-
-“I suppose you are attached to this place?” continued Bulstrode.
-
-“Yes,” cried Mrs. Blair with tears in her voice. “I don’t know why
-especially, except that I am prone to become attached to places and
-people. And, remember, I have lived here ever since I began to think
-and feel. It seems to me that the troubles I have had tie me to it as
-much as the joys, and they have been many, Mr. Bulstrode. They were not
-the griefs you read about in books, but those plain every-day sorrows
-that come to women’s hearts.”
-
-Mrs. Blair stopped; she had uttered no complaint heretofore, and the
-habit of forbearance was strong upon her. She went to the window
-and looked out. The clouds had melted away and a summer moon shone
-fitfully, flooding the river with its silver light. She was recalled by
-hearing her name uttered by Bulstrode in a curious voice. She resumed
-her chair and turned her delicate profile towards Bulstrode.
-
-“Mrs. Blair,” said he hesitatingly, “have you never speculated upon
-what becomes of Skelton’s fortune from his wife if he should marry
-again, or at his death? for you know, of course, that it is only his
-until one of those things happens.”
-
-“We have heard a great deal of talk, but, naturally, we feel a delicacy
-at making any enquiries about it.”
-
-“Delicacy be hanged!” cried Bulstrode, rising. “Do you know, ma’am,
-that it’s quite possible--quite probable--that some day you and your
-children will have all that money?”
-
-“I cannot think that,” answered Mrs. Blair, rising, too, and supposing
-that Bulstrode meant that Skelton might leave it to them. “Although
-I am Mr. Skelton’s nearest relative, there is no love lost between
-us--and my husband and he are at feud. I am sure Mr. Skelton would
-never wish us to benefit by anything he had.”
-
-“But,” cried Bulstrode excitedly, “he can’t help it--he can’t help it!
-Don’t you suppose he would if he could?”
-
-Mrs. Blair turned very pale. “What do you mean?” she asked.
-
-“I mean,” said Bulstrode, in his impressive voice, “I mean that by
-the fondness of a woman Skelton became possessed of a great fortune;
-and by her jealousy it is only his until his death or marriage; and by
-her folly it all descends to his heirs. He cannot control one shilling
-of his wife’s fortune--it goes to his heirs. And you--_you_--_you_ and
-your children are Skelton’s heirs!”
-
-Mrs. Blair was completely dazed by what she heard and by Bulstrode’s
-vehemence. His agitation, too, was contagious. She felt herself
-trembling, because she saw Bulstrode’s tremor.
-
-“What do you mean?” she stammered.
-
-“What I say,” replied Bulstrode, grasping her arm. “I’ve known it ever
-since Mrs. Skelton died. Of course, it wasn’t her intention that it
-should be so; she was actuated by two master passions, love and hate.
-She meant Skelton to have the property, and that her own relatives, in
-punishment for the stand they took at her marriage, should suffer for
-it. She had the will made soon after her marriage, when she hoped that
-Skelton’s heirs would be their children. It was the worst-made will
-ever seen in England. In her last illness she made additions to it,
-that only complicated matters more. It was such a muddle that Skelton
-was forced to apply to the courts to construe it, with a result that
-infuriated him. He is a bond slave in the midst of all that money.
-He has his choice of two things, one of which may be impossible; the
-other is, to hand over to you and yours three fourths of his money--and
-he must do it if he marries again, and his executors must do it if
-he dies. Just imagine this state of things upon a man of Skelton’s
-temperament! Great God! I wonder he hasn’t gone mad thinking over it!”
-
-Mrs. Blair sat quite silent and still. Bulstrode began to march about
-the room, running his hand through his shaggy hair and exclaiming at
-intervals, “Great Cæsar!” “Immortal Jove!” “Gadzooks!” Then turning
-towards her, he cried: “But there is another factor in it--another
-complication”--he came close to Mrs. Blair, and whispered:
-
-“Lewis Pryor.”
-
-Mrs. Blair started, and a rosy blush succeeded her paleness.
-
-“You know, the old Greeks had a word for such children as Lewis Pryor.
-They called them ‘the children of the soul.’ Now, the fool of a
-solicitor who drew Mrs. Skelton’s will, in securing the reversion of
-the property to the children of Richard Skelton, did not provide at
-all against any children that he might have had when he married Mrs.
-Skelton. Good God! madam, did you ever know such a concatenation of
-follies and misunderstandings and mistakes? Scarcely a single design of
-Mrs. Skelton’s is carried out; and either you must get the property,
-or Skelton must acknowledge Lewis Pryor. But,” continued Bulstrode,
-his voice rising to a shout, “the end of difficulties is not yet.
-Great Jupiter! all the ingenuity of man could not bring about such
-strange complications as blind Fate would have it. Skelton took such
-pains to make Lewis Pryor out to be the son of his old tutor and his
-wife, and they became so fond of the boy, that among them all they
-obliterated every proof that Lewis Pryor was anything but Lewis Pryor.
-There stands the testimony of the Pryors in their wills leaving their
-little belongings to their ‘beloved son, Lewis’--not a word said about
-adoption. They lived in terror that Skelton would some time or other
-take the boy away from them, and they meant to make a fight for him.
-Skelton then was as anxious as they were that the secret should be
-kept. He made them a handsome allowance, but he was so astute about it
-that not even _that_ could be proved. Never man so overreached himself
-as Richard Skelton. The Pryors both died when Lewis was about five
-years old. Skelton sent for him--from an awakening sense of duty, I
-fancy--and immediately conceived such a passion of paternal love as you
-never saw in your life, and could never part with him afterwards. You
-love your boy; Skelton idolises his.”
-
-Bulstrode had stopped his agitated walk while telling this, but he
-began it again, his lumbering figure making grotesque shadows on the
-wall. Mrs. Blair listened, overwhelmed as much by Bulstrode’s manner
-as by the strange things he was telling her. Presently he came, and,
-sitting down by the table, brought his fist down so hard that the
-candles jumped.
-
-“But there is more--actually more. If Skelton ever tries to prove that
-Lewis is his son, mark my words, the boy will fight against it--he
-will fight against it. I can’t make out what he really thinks now, but
-he clings so hard to his Pryor parentage, he speaks of it so often,
-he treasures up every little thing that he inherited from the Pryors,
-that sometimes I fancy he has doubts. He is always anxious to disclaim
-any authority Skelton asserts over him. The Pryors and Skelton in
-the beginning, supposing I knew nothing about the boy, agreed in
-making me the boy’s guardian. Skelton knows that he has me under his
-thumb--and he has, by George! However, he can’t kick me out of the
-house, no matter how much he would like to, so long as I am Lewis
-Pryor’s guardian. But if I were called upon to-morrow in a court of law
-to say that Lewis is Skelton’s son, I would have no better proof than
-Skelton’s word; and the Pryors told me dozens of times that the boy was
-theirs. Pryor was an astute fellow, and, although both he and his wife
-knew they could not hoodwink me, they were careful never to admit to
-me that the boy was anything but theirs. You see, if Skelton had tried
-to get him away in their lifetime, he couldn’t have proved anything by
-me.” Bulstrode paused for breath and wiped his face.
-
-“The boy has eyes like Richard Skelton’s,” said Mrs. Blair, after a
-pause.
-
-“Exactly. But, although he is the same type, and one would use the same
-terms in describing Skelton and Lewis, they are not personally very
-much alike except their eyes. Strange to say, Lewis is not unlike Mrs.
-Pryor, who was a dark, slight woman. She always fancied him to be like
-a child she lost, and that was one reason she became so devoted to him.
-But to see Skelton and Lewis together in the same house--haw! haw!”
-
-Bulstrode broke into a great, nervous laugh. “_Then_ you’d know they
-were father and son. To see that little shaver stand up straight and
-eye the great Mr. Skelton as coolly as you please--odd’s my life,
-madam, the brat is a gentleman, if I ever saw one! You ought to
-see the positive air with which he disclaims any relationship to
-Skelton when strangers have asked him about it. That, too, makes
-me suspect that he dreads something of the sort. It would be more
-natural if he should show a boyish desire to be related to Skelton
-and to share his consequence. He has a few books of Pryor’s and a few
-trinkets of Mrs. Pryor’s, and I don’t believe all Skelton’s money
-could buy those trifling things from him. But this haughty, naturally
-self-respecting spirit of the boy only makes Skelton love him the more.
-I have predicted to Skelton that the boy will hate him forever if any
-disclosure is made about his birth. And Skelton dreads it, too. So you
-see, madam, in spite of all he can do--and he will do all that mortal
-man can do--you and yours may yet be rich through Skelton.”
-
-Elizabeth sat, roused out of her sad patience into trembling
-excitement. Of course, it was far off and doubtful, but it was
-startling. Bulstrode had not asked her not to mention it to her
-husband, nor would she have made any such promise. Presently Bulstrode
-rose to go. Elizabeth realised, without his mentioning it, that if
-it ever came to Skelton’s ears what Bulstrode had that night told,
-Deerchase would never harbour him another hour, and she knew it was in
-pity for her griefs that he had told her at all. She tried to express
-this to Bulstrode, and he comprehended her.
-
-He walked back to Deerchase oppressed with the reaction that follows
-excitement. Suddenly, as he trudged along the white and sandy road,
-under the pale splendour of the moon, he remembered Skelton’s words:
-“You will not do the boy any harm until your heedless tongue begins to
-wag, and then in pure idleness and wantonness you will tell all you
-know.” Yes, Skelton was right, as usual. He had not told it in idleness
-or wantonness, but he had told it. He could fancy Lewis’s face if he
-had heard what had passed in the Newington drawing-room that night--the
-shame, grief, reproach, indignation. Bulstrode sighed, and went heavily
-upon his road home.
-
-Mrs. Blair remained sitting in the drawing-room for some hours just
-as Bulstrode had left her. The candles burned out and the moonlight
-streamed through the open windows and made patches on the polished
-floor. A servant went about after a while, shutting the house up, when
-Mrs. Blair rose and went to her own room. As she passed Hilary’s door
-everything was still, and she was afraid to open the door for fear it
-might wake him. She found herself unable to go to bed, though, and at
-midnight was sitting at her window looking out without seeing anything,
-although the moon was not yet gone.
-
-Presently she heard Blair come softly out of Hilary’s room and go
-downstairs into his own den, which was called by courtesy a study, but
-which was littered up with all the impedimenta of a country gentleman.
-Sometimes during the night watches, when the boy was sleeping, he would
-slip down there for a smoke. Nothing could exceed Blair’s tenderness to
-his children, and when they were ill their exquisite fondness for him
-appeared to redouble.
-
-He had just finished his first cigar when the door opened and Elizabeth
-entered with a candle in her hand. She had on a white dressing
-wrapper, and her long hair was plaited down her back. Blair knew in an
-instant from her face that something strange had happened.
-
-She came forward and seated herself so that her head rested on his
-shoulder. Blair at once laid down the cigar he had just lighted. He
-did not hesitate to ask her to sign away her rights in everything they
-jointly possessed, but he was careful to treat her with every mark of
-the most perfect personal respect.
-
-“Is Hilary asleep?” she asked.
-
-“Soundly. He won’t wake up until morning. You had a visitor. I heard
-Bulstrode’s voice downstairs.”
-
-“Yes,” answered Elizabeth.
-
-Blair felt her begin to tremble, and asked her what was the matter.
-
-“Only something Mr. Bulstrode told me,” she answered, and then rapidly
-and excitedly poured it all out. She could always express herself with
-remarkable clearness, and Blair had no difficulty in understanding just
-how things were.
-
-“And, although it will probably never benefit us,” said Elizabeth
-finally, “for Richard Skelton is as likely to live as we are, yet it
-may some day benefit our children.”
-
-“But I don’t see why it shouldn’t benefit us,” said Blair drily.
-“Nothing is easier than to get a copy of that will, and somebody can be
-found who will risk something upon such magnificent chances. I daresay
-Skelton himself would be glad to compromise with us for a handsome sum
-if we would convey all our interest in the property back to him.”
-
-Elizabeth listened, startled and annoyed. She had felt some qualms at
-the idea that, even if Lewis Pryor should make a successful fight for
-his supposed parentage, her children should inherit money that was only
-theirs through accident and bungling. But there was nobody else with
-any better right to it, for the late Mrs. Skelton had fully determined
-that her own family should not have it. And besides, it would be after
-Skelton’s death--for she did not for a moment suppose that he would
-marry. But this way of setting up an immediate claim to it offended
-her. Being a singularly high-minded woman, she did not value money very
-greatly, and had many delicate scruples regarding it.
-
-“But--but--you don’t mean that you would take any steps--” she asked
-hesitatingly.
-
-“Just wait and see,” answered Blair promptly. “And Skelton may marry,
-remember. I think he admires Sylvia Shapleigh very much; and you may
-depend upon it, I sha’n’t refuse anything that is mine.”
-
-Elizabeth for the first time in her life felt a little disgusted with
-him.
-
-“I am afraid you are not as high-minded as I thought you,” she said
-after a moment.
-
-Blair withdrew his arm from around her with displeasure written all
-over his strong, expressive face. He began to finger his cigar, which
-was a hint that she had better leave him. Usually Elizabeth never
-remained a moment after she found she was trespassing, but to-night she
-sat quite still. A quarrel between two extremely refined, courteous,
-and attached persons is none the less bitter because each one is
-scrupulously polite. Blair said, after a few moments:
-
-“Your remark is quite uncalled for, and let me tell you, Elizabeth,
-a man knows much more about these things than a woman. A man must be
-trusted to manage his own affairs; and if he is incapable, another man
-ought to be appointed his conservator.”
-
-Blair had mismanaged his own affairs so beautifully that this sentiment
-was peculiarly absurd coming from him. He glanced at Elizabeth and saw
-something like a half-smile upon her face. She said nothing, but her
-silence was eloquent. Blair wished then for the thousandth time that
-Elizabeth would show her displeasure as other women did--with tears and
-unguarded words and reproaches, or even as Mrs. Shapleigh did.
-
-“I believe,” she said, after a long and painful pause, “that if the
-dead woman had her choice she would be very willing for Lewis Pryor
-to have the money, because Richard Skelton loves him so, and because
-she loved Richard Skelton so. But I am afraid--I am afraid--it has
-just occurred to me--that she would detest the idea of our having it,
-because Richard Skelton hates us so. And there cannot be any blessing
-attached to money that comes in that way.”
-
-“Damme!” cried Blair rudely.
-
-Elizabeth rose at once. Like him, she was extremely dainty in her ideas
-of behaviour, and the only sort of henpecking she ever visited upon
-Blair was the strict account she held him to as regarded his manners to
-her, which, however, Blair was quite ready to accord usually. Even now
-he felt immediate remorse, and held out his hand.
-
-“Forgive me,” he said; “but it seems to me, Elizabeth, that we are
-saying very odd and uncomfortable things to each other to-night.”
-
-Elizabeth submitted to be drawn to him, and even to rest her head again
-upon his shoulder; but the quarrel between husband and wife had to be
-fought out as much as if they were a thousand miles apart. Blair tried
-some of his old flattery on her.
-
-“You know I could not forbear any triumph over Skelton--and you know
-why. I want the money, but I want revenge, too; and revenge is a much
-more gentlemanly vice than avarice, as vices go. However, you never saw
-a man in your life who was indifferent to money.”
-
-“Yes, I have--Mr. Conyers.”
-
-“Pooh--a parson!”
-
-“And Lewis Pryor. Mr. Bulstrode says he believes the boy will actually
-fight against being made Richard Skelton’s heir, so much more does he
-value respectable parentage than money.”
-
-“Pooh--a boy!”
-
-“And I assure you, that many things might make _me_ regret we have that
-money, if it comes.”
-
-“Pshaw--a woman!”
-
-“It may be that only parsons, boys, and women are indifferent to money;
-but if my son showed--as I hope he would--the same jealous solicitude
-for his honour and mine that Lewis Pryor does for his and his mother’s,
-I should indeed be proud of him. Fancy,” she said, raising herself and
-looking at Blair with luminous eyes, “the bribe of a great fortune
-being offered to Hilary if he would cast shame on his mother! And would
-I not rather see him dead before my eyes than yielding?”
-
-Blair mumbled something about not being parallel cases.
-
-“Then imagine yourself--all Richard Skelton’s fortune yours”--Elizabeth
-waved her hands expressively--“all--all, if you will only agree that
-your mother was an unworthy woman.”
-
-Blair remained silent. Elizabeth was too acute for him then.
-
-“Of course,” he said after a moment, “I respect the boy for the spirit
-Bulstrode says he has shown, and I hope he’ll stick to it. I hope he’ll
-make a fight for it and come out ahead, and prosper, and have all the
-money that’s good for him. Skelton has got a very handsome estate of
-his own to give him; and he may be master of Deerchase yet.”
-
-“And our little Mary may be mistress of Deerchase,” said Elizabeth,
-who had a truly feminine propensity for concocting marriages for her
-children from their cradles.
-
-“Never!” Blair brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. “She
-shall marry respectably or not at all; and though I like money, my
-daughter shall never marry any man who has no name to give her.”
-
-“Perhaps they may run away,” remarked Mrs. Blair demurely, at which
-they both laughed a little, and Blair kissed his wife. But there was
-still battle between them. Mrs. Blair wanted the matter to rest; Blair
-wanted to agitate it immediately.
-
-“Mr. Bulstrode meant to make me happy,” she said bitterly, after a
-while; “but I doubt if he has. I even doubt, if that money comes to us,
-whether it may not do us more harm than good.”
-
-“I understand quite well what you mean,” cried Blair, blazing up.
-“You think I will go back to horse racing, and gambling, and a few
-other vices. That is the confidence you have in my word. I tell you,
-Elizabeth, a man can’t have any confidence in himself unless somebody
-else has some confidence in him; and a man’s wife can make a scoundrel
-of him easier than anybody in the world.”
-
-“I did not suspect that I was calculated to make a scoundrel of a man,”
-answered Elizabeth; and Blair taking out his watch ostentatiously and
-picking up his cigar again, she rose to go. Their voices had not risen
-beyond the most ordinary pitch, yet the first serious quarrel of their
-married life had come about. Blair relighted her candle for her, and
-held the door wide open until she had reached the top of the stair. He
-was very polite to her, but he was more angry with her than he supposed
-he ever could be. He was angry with her for the little she said, but
-more angry with her for the great deal she implied; and he meant to
-have some money on his expectations, if it were in the power of mortal
-man.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVI.
-
-
-Blair was as good as his word, and sent immediately to England for a
-copy of Mrs. Skelton’s will. But in those days it was a matter of three
-months or more to get a thing of that kind attended to, and meanwhile
-affairs with him improved greatly. Old Tom Shapleigh, urged thereto
-by Sylvia, and also by Mrs. Shapleigh, who declared she never could
-tolerate a new neighbour at Newington, went quietly to work and bought
-up all of the most pressing claims against Blair. He knew that he could
-get as good interest on his money invested in Newington, under Blair’s
-admirable management, as anywhere else; and, besides, he was fond of
-the Blairs, and anxious to do them a good turn for the very bad one
-of selling Alabaster to Blair. So Blair suddenly found himself very
-much better placed than he expected, and with an excellent chance, if
-he lived ten years, of paying off his debts. He also had a strange
-sense of relief when his race horses were sold, at the feeling that
-it was now out of his power to be a turfite any longer. It had always
-been a nightmare as well as a vampire to him, and fortunately it was
-one of those passions which have a body to them, and can therefore be
-destroyed, at least temporarily. His horses brought uncommonly good
-prices, which enabled him to pay some of the small debts that harassed
-him most. He began to think, with a sort of savage satisfaction, that
-what Skelton designed for his destruction might in the end be his
-salvation. Hilary, too, began to improve rapidly, and was in six weeks’
-time perfectly recovered. Mrs. Blair was amazed at the turn affairs
-took; but there was yet an unspoken, still antagonism between Blair
-and herself in regard to his course about the Skelton money. They had
-been so happy together for so many years that the mere habit of love
-was strong. The children saw no shadow between their father and mother,
-but nevertheless it was there, and it pursued them; it sat down by
-them, and walked with them, and never left them. Elizabeth, seeing how
-happy they might have been without this, conceived a tender, womanish
-superstition against the money that might be theirs. She had a faint,
-quivering doubt that much money might be Blair’s destruction; and,
-anyhow, the mere hint of it had brought silent dissension between them,
-when nothing else ever had. Mrs. Blair, in the depths of her soul,
-heartily wished Bulstrode had never told her what he did, or that she
-had never told Blair. She had been able to hold up her head proudly
-before Richard Skelton in all the rivalry between him and her husband;
-but now, this unseemly looking after what might never be theirs and was
-never intended to be theirs, this hankering after dead men’s shoes,
-made her ashamed.
-
-What Skelton thought or felt nobody knew. He expressed, however, to
-Sylvia, great solicitude in speaking of Hilary Blair’s recovery, and
-sent Bob Skinny formally, once or twice, to ask how the boy was.
-Sylvia was making herself felt on Skelton’s heart and mind; but, like a
-man, he put off entertaining the great guest as long as he could. And
-there was his engagement to the world to do something extraordinary.
-In the long summer days he was haunted by that unfulfilled promise. He
-was so tormented and driven by it, and by his inability to settle down
-steadily to his book, that he looked about him for some distraction. He
-found it only too often, he began to think, in Sylvia Shapleigh’s soft
-eyes and charming talk.
-
-Skelton was not averse to occasional hospitalities on a grand scale,
-and one day it occurred to him that he would give a great ball as a
-return for the invitations he had received.
-
-On mentioning this embryonic scheme to Sylvia, that young woman
-received it with enthusiasm, and even slyly put Lewis Pryor up
-to reminding Skelton of it. Lewis, too, was immensely taken with
-the notion, and when Skelton found himself the victim of two such
-conspirators, he yielded gracefully enough. He declared that he would
-send for a man from Baltimore who knew all about balls, that he
-might not be bothered with it, and Sylvia forcibly encouraged him in
-everything calculated to make the ball a success. The man was sent for
-and plans were made, upon which Sylvia’s opinion was asked--to Mrs.
-Shapleigh’s delight and consternation and to old Tom’s secret amusement.
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh, the county will say at once that Sylvia is engaged to
-Richard Skelton, and then what shall we do?”
-
-“Do, ma’am? Do as the French do in a gale of wind.”
-
-“What is that, Mr. Shapleigh?”
-
-“The best they can.”
-
-“Now, Mr. Shapleigh, why will you say such senseless things? Of course,
-there’s nothing for us to do--nothing; and, although Richard Skelton is
-the greatest match in the county, even if he does have to give up his
-wife’s money, yet there are drawbacks to him. You told me yourself he
-didn’t believe in the devil.”
-
-“Well, he will if he ever gets married,” responded old Tom, with an
-enormous wink.
-
-The giving of a ball such as Skelton designed was in those days an
-undertaking little short of a crusade in the Middle Ages. A sailing
-vessel had to be sent to Baltimore for the supper, musicians,
-decorations, and everything the plantation did not supply; and it
-might return in one week, and it might return in two weeks, and it
-might never return at all. Sylvia Shapleigh hypocritically made light
-of these difficulties, and handsome cards were sent out to the whole
-county, including the Blairs. By some sort of hocus-pocus, Sylvia and
-Lewis obtained the privilege of addressing the invitations, so fearful
-were they of leaving Skelton a loophole of escape. It was done one June
-morning in the summerhouse on the bridge--Skelton sitting back smiling,
-while Sylvia and Lewis alternately conspired and squabbled. Skelton
-had a way of looking at Sylvia that always agitated her, although she
-thought she gave no sign of it. She had by this time acknowledged to
-herself that there were only two places in the world for her--the one
-where Skelton was, and the other where he was not. She had not, with
-all her native acuteness, the slightest idea what Skelton felt for her.
-True, he had a manner of paying her small attentions and compliments,
-insignificant in themselves, but which he invested with a deep and
-peculiar meaning. On this very morning, as she and Lewis chattered,
-Skelton sat looking at her with an expression of enjoyment, as if her
-mere presence and talk gave him exquisite pleasure. It did give him
-pleasure to see how much he dominated her; it was a royal sort of
-overbearing, a refined and subtle tyranny, that gratified his secret
-inordinate pride.
-
-Sylvia confided in him that she was to have a new white-lutestring
-gown, and Mrs. Shapleigh had ordered a turban with a bird of paradise
-on it for the occasion. Nothing could exceed Sylvia’s interest and
-delight, except Lewis’s.
-
-Bulstrode locked and barred himself in his room when Bridges, the
-functionary who was to arrange the ball, arrived from Baltimore.
-Skelton took refuge in the library, which was the one spot in the house
-upon which Bridges dare not lay his sacrilegious hands. But even the
-fastidious and scholarly Skelton could not wholly escape the domestic
-hullabaloo of a ball in the country. Lewis Pryor, at first delighted,
-soon found that if he showed his nose outside of the library he was
-pounced upon by Bridges--a saturnine-looking person, who had exchanged
-the calling of an undertaker for that of a caterer--and sent on an
-errand of some sort. Lewis, who was not used to this sort of thing,
-would have promptly resented it, except that it was for the great, the
-grand, the wonderful ball. Why he should be so anxious about the ball,
-he did not know; there was nobody to take any notice of him; but still,
-he wanted it, and Sylvia had promised to dance the first quadrille
-with him. This invitation was given far in advance, with a view of
-out-generalling Skelton.
-
-Bob Skinny’s disgust was extreme. The idea that he was to be superseded
-by a person of such low origin and inferior talents as Bridges was
-exasperating to the last degree.
-
-“Dat ar owdacious Bridges man,” he complained to Lewis, “he think
-he know ev’ything. He come a-countin’ my spoons an’ forks, an’ he
-say, ‘How many spoons an’ forks has you got?’ An’ I say, ‘Millions
-on ’em--millions on ’em; de Skeltons allers had more’n anybody in
-de worl’. I nuvver count all on ’em, myse’f.’ _He_ ain’ nuvver been
-to furrin parts; an’ when I ax him, jist to discomfuse him, ef he
-couldn’ play on de fluke er nuttin’, he say he ain’ got no time fer
-sich conjurements. I tole him, maybe he so us’ ter settin’ up wid
-dade folks an’ undertakin’ dat he dunno nuttin’ ’bout a party; an’ he
-went an’ tole Mr. Skelton. But Mr. Skelton, he shet him up. He say,
-‘Well, Bridges, I daresay you’ll have to put up wid Bob Skinny. De
-wuffless rascal done had he way fur so long dat nobody now kin hardly
-conflagrate him.’ So now, sence de Bridges man know my corndition, I
-jes’ walks out in de g’yardin, a-playin’ my fluke, an’ when he sen’ fur
-me, I tell him ter go long--I doan’ do no wuk dese days; ’tain’t none
-o’ my ball--’tis his’n--an’ ter be sho’ an’ doan’ make no mistake dat
-it is a funeral.”
-
-As this was literally true, war to the knife was inaugurated between
-Bridges and Bob Skinny. Bob consoled himself, though, by promising
-that, when the musicians arrived, “I gwi’ jine ’em, an’ take my place
-’longside de hade man, an’ gwi’ show ’em how I play de fluke fo’ de
-Duke o’ Wellingcome, an’ de Prince Rejump, and Napoleon Bonyparte, an’
-all dem high-flyers dat wuz allus arter Mr. Skelton ter sell me ter ’em
-when we wuz ’broad.”
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh was in a state of much agitation, first, for fear
-the bird of paradise wouldn’t come, and then for fear it wouldn’t
-be becoming. Nor was Sylvia’s mind quite easy until the new
-white-lutestring ball dress was an accomplished fact.
-
-And at Newington, too, was much concern. An invitation had been sent
-to the Blairs, of course, and as Hilary was now on the highroad to
-recovery, there was no reasonable excuse for the Blairs not going.
-According to the hospitable customs of the age, to decline to go to a
-certain house was an acknowledgment of the most unqualified enmity. The
-resources of the people were so few, that to refuse an invitation to a
-festivity could only proceed from the most deadly ill-will. People who
-avowedly disliked each other yet kept up a visiting acquaintance, for,
-as they were planted by each other in perpetuity, they were forced to
-be wary in their enmities.
-
-Blair and his wife discussed it amicably; they were more conciliatory
-and forbearing, now that there was an inharmonious chord between them,
-than before, when they had had their little differences, secure in
-their perfect understanding of each other. Blair promptly decided that
-they must go, else it would appear as if he were still unreasonably
-sore over his defeat. Mrs. Blair acquiesced in this. She could not,
-like Sylvia Shapleigh, have a new ball gown, but her white-silk wedding
-dress, that cherished gown, bought for her to be married to Skelton
-in, and in which she was actually married to Blair, was turned and
-furbished up for the occasion. Mrs. Blair felt the exquisite absurdity
-of this, and could not forbear smiling when she was engaged in her work.
-
-The night of the ball arrived--a July night, cool for the season.
-By seven o’clock the roads leading to Deerchase were full of great,
-old-fashioned coaches, gigs, stanhopes, and chaises, bringing the
-county gentry to the grand and much-talked-of ball. Mrs. Shapleigh,
-whose remains of beauty were not inconsiderable, had begun making her
-toilet at three o’clock in the day, and was in full regalia at six. She
-had on a superb crimson satin gown, and the bird of paradise nodded
-majestically on her head, while she wore so many necklaces around her
-neck that she looked like a Christmas turkey. Old Tom was out in his
-best full dress, of swallow-tailed blue coat and brass buttons, with a
-fine lawn tie to muffle up his throat, after the fashion, and thread
-cambric ruffles rushing out of his yellow-satin waistcoat. Sylvia
-had resisted her mother’s entreaties to wear a sash, to wear another
-necklace, to wear a wreath of artificial flowers, and various other
-adornments, and by the charming simplicity of her dress was even more
-successful than usual in persuading the world that she was handsome.
-
-At Deerchase, the house was lighted with wax candles as soon as it was
-dark. The grounds were illuminated with Chinese lanterns, a luxury
-never before witnessed in those parts; there was to be a constant
-exhibition of fireworks on the river, and a band of musicians played
-in the grounds, and another band in the great hall, which was cleared
-for dancing. A ball upon a plantation was always as much enjoyed
-by the negroes as the white people, and every negro at Deerchase
-was out in his or her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, some to help in
-the house, some at the stables to take care of the carriages and
-horses, and others who merely enjoyed looking on with intense though
-regulated delight. Bob Skinny was simply immense, and fairly outshone
-Mrs. Shapleigh in the number and variety of his rings, chains, and
-breastpins. He stood on the square portico that faced the drive,
-with his arms magnificently folded, his “fluke” under his arm, and
-occasionally, with an air of tremendous solemnity, he consulted a
-huge silver watch which didn’t run, that Skelton had given him. Bob
-arrogated to himself the honour of receiving the guests as they
-alighted, while Skelton occupied a comparatively unimportant position
-in the hall. Bulstrode was prowling about, completely subdued by his
-evening coat and a pair of large white kid gloves. Lewis Pryor, full
-of delighted excitement, was surveying his handsome boyish figure in
-the glass over the hall chimney-piece, as Skelton descended the stairs,
-putting on his gloves.
-
-“How do you like yourself?” he called out.
-
-Lewis blushed furiously and laughed.
-
-Meanwhile Bob Skinny and the “hade man” of the musicians were having a
-lively verbal scrimmage in the porch.
-
-“Here you is!” remarked Bob, with an air of lofty patronage, as the
-leader of the band, a red-faced German, accompanied by his satellites,
-appeared on the porch with their instruments. “Now, I gwi’ show you how
-ter play de fluke, an’ I gwi’ play wid you, arter I done git th’u wid
-receivin’ de cump’ny. I kin play de fluke better’n anybody you ever
-see, but I ain’ proud; I doan’ min’ playin’ wid you.”
-
-“You holt your tongue,” calmly remarked the German. “I got no dime der
-drifle.”
-
-“Look a-here,” answered Bob Skinny severely, “doan’ you go fer to
-wex me; doan’ you wex nor aggrawate me. I done been ter Germany, and
-’tain’t nobody d’yar ’cept po’ white trash. _You’s_ de hade man o’ dem
-fiddlers, an’ _I_ is de hade man o’ Mr. Richard Skelton, dat’s got mo’
-lan’ an’ niggers en all de wuffless Germans put toge’rr.” Bob’s remarks
-were cut short untimely by Skelton’s appearing in the porch, when he
-became as mute as an oyster. Meanwhile the musicians had carried their
-instruments in, and began tuning up. Bob, however, could not refrain
-from tuning and blowing on his “fluke” at the most critical time, when
-his enemy, the German, was trying to give the pitch.
-
-In a very little while the carriages began rolling up to the door, in
-the soft purple twilight of July. The Blairs and the Shapleighs were
-among the first to arrive. Sylvia was really pretty that night, and the
-excitement of the music and the Chinese lanterns and the fireworks that
-were being set off upon the river, which was all black and gold with
-the fire and darkness, was not lost upon her. Never had she seen such
-a ball; it was worth a dozen trips to the Springs.
-
-Mrs. Blair, too, was in great form, and her turned wedding-gown set so
-gracefully upon her that she looked to be one of the best-dressed women
-in the room. Blair put on all his most charming ways, and honey-fuggled
-Mrs. Shapleigh and several other ladies of her age most audaciously.
-The women all smiled on him, and Elizabeth suffered the most ridiculous
-pangs of jealousy that could be imagined. But she was not quite like
-her old self; the possibilities of the future were always before her;
-her mind was too often engaged in picturing that dim future when she
-and Blair and Skelton would be dust and ashes, and her children might
-be leading a strange, brilliant, dazzling existence, which would be
-immeasurably removed from any life that she had ever known. And that
-strong but impalpable estrangement between Blair and herself--she was
-ashamed and humiliated when she thought of his investigation and prying
-and peering into Skelton’s affairs; and suppose, after all, Skelton
-should find a way out of it, and then they would get no fortune at all;
-and what a mortifying position would be theirs! for the whole county
-must know it--the whole county knew everything.
-
-There was dancing in the main hall and cards in the library, and the
-lofty and beautiful drawing-rooms were for lookers-on. Skelton, who
-when he greeted her had pressed Sylvia’s hand for the pleasure of
-seeing the blood mount in her smooth cheek, asked if she was engaged
-for the first dance.
-
-[Illustration: THERE WAS DANCING IN THE MAIN HALL, AND THE
-DRAWING-ROOMS WERE FOR LOOKERS-ON.--_Page 224_]
-
-“Yes,” answered Sylvia. “I have been engaged for it for three
-weeks--” Skelton scowled; perhaps Sylvia was not as much under his
-spell as he fancied, but he smiled when Sylvia continued--“to Lewis
-Pryor.”
-
-“The little scamp has circumvented me, I see,” he remarked, and did not
-seem displeased at the idea.
-
-Lewis soon sidled up to Sylvia, proud and delighted at her notice. But
-it was all the notice he had, except from Mr. Conyers, who patted him
-on the head, and a smile from Mrs. Blair. The clergyman had come in
-response to a personal note as well as a card from Skelton, and walked
-about sadly, thinking on the vast and sorrowful spectacle of human
-nature even in the presence of so much fleeting joy. He had not been
-in the house an hour, though, before he came up to say good-night.
-There was not only much card playing going on in the library, but
-considerable betting, which was the fashion in those days, and to that
-Conyers was unalterably opposed.
-
-“Mr. Skelton,” said he, coming up to him, “I must say good-night.”
-
-“Why so early?” asked Skelton graciously. “Since you have done me the
-honour of coming, why not do me the pleasure of staying?”
-
-“Because,” said Conyers, who spoke the truth in season and out of
-season, “it is against my conscience to stay where betting is going
-on. Forgive me, if I apparently commit a breach of hospitality, but
-consider, Mr. Skelton, you will one day be held accountable for the
-iniquity that is now taking place under your roof.”
-
-“I accept the responsibility,” answered Skelton, with unabated
-politeness, “and I regret your decision. You are always welcome at
-Deerchase, Mr. Conyers, and you have the most perfect liberty of
-expressing your opinions.”
-
-“Thank you,” replied poor Conyers, with tears in his eyes. “If
-everybody was as tolerant as you, my ministry would be easier than it
-is.”
-
-As Conyers went one way, Skelton went off another, thinking to himself,
-“Was ever a man so openly defied as I?” True it was he could be openly
-defied, and everybody had full liberty, until Skelton’s own orbit was
-crossed: then there was no liberty.
-
-Old Tom Shapleigh swung, like a pendulum, between cards and dancing. He
-danced with all the vigor of colonial days, and his small, high-bred
-feet, cased in white-silk stockings and low shoes, with silver buckles,
-twinkled like a ballet dancer’s as he cut the pigeon wing. Mrs. Blair,
-who danced sedately and gracefully, was his partner. Bob Skinny, his
-head thrown back and wearing an expression of ecstatic delight, watched
-the dancers from a corner, occasionally waving his “fluke” to mark the
-time. However, by some occult means he had become acquainted with the
-champagne punch, and when Skelton’s back was turned, Bob proceeded to
-cut the pigeon wing too, and to back-step and double-shuffle with the
-most surprising agility. In the midst of this performance, though, a
-hint of Skelton’s approach being given, Bob instantly assumed the most
-rigid and dignified pose imaginable.
-
-Lewis, after dancing once with Sylvia and once with Mrs. Blair, who
-spoke to him kindly, wandered about, lonely enough. The people did not
-relax in the least their aloofness towards him. He felt inexpressibly
-sad and forlorn, and at this ball, too, which, as a matter of fact,
-might never have been given but for him. But the beauty and splendour
-of the scene dazzled him. He could not tear himself away.
-
-Something of the same spell was upon Bulstrode. He knew little and
-cared less for social life; he was one of those unfortunates who have
-but one single, solitary source of enjoyment--the purely intellectual;
-but the lights, the music, the gaiety, the festal air, had its
-effect even on his sluggish temperament. He sat in a corner of the
-drawing-room, his bulky, awkward figure filling up a great chair, and
-Lewis came and leaned silently upon the back of it. In some way, master
-and pupil felt strange to the rest of the world that night, and drawn
-together.
-
-“Mr. Bulstrode,” said Lewis presently, “I always feel alone in a crowd.
-Don’t you?”
-
-“Yes, boy,” answered Bulstrode, glancing about him with an odd look of
-dejection. “And in a crowd of merry-makers my old heart grows chill
-with loneliness.”
-
-“It is much worse to be lonely when you are young,” Lewis moralised.
-“But there is Miss Sylvia Shapleigh. I wonder if she will come up and
-talk to us?”
-
-Sylvia did come up and speak to them. There was a new brilliancy in her
-smile, and a deep and eloquent flush upon her cheek. Bulstrode felt
-compelled to pay her one of his awkward compliments.
-
-“My dear young lady,” he said, “to-night you look like one of those
-fair Greek girls of old, who lived but to smile and to dance and to
-love.”
-
-Sylvia’s colour deepened; she stood quite still, gazing at Bulstrode as
-if he had uttered a prophecy; but then Lewis, suddenly seeing people
-going out of the bay windows on the lawn, cried out excitedly: “Now the
-finest part of the fireworks is going off! Come along!” And, seizing
-her hand, they went out on the smooth-shaven lawn as far as the river.
-
-In spite of the coloured lights, it was dim, as there was no moon.
-The house, with its great wings, was so illuminated, that it looked
-enormously large. Afar off came the strains of music, while in the half
-darkness figures moved about like ghosts. Lewis and Sylvia, standing
-hand in hand, watched the great golden wheels that rose from a boat in
-the river magnificently lighting up the blue-black sky, and reflected
-in the blue-black water as they burst in a shower of sparkles. How
-good, in those days, were beautiful things to eyes unjaded, to minds
-prepared to marvel, to tastes so simple that almost anything could
-inspire wonder and delight!
-
-Sylvia had no wrap around her shoulders, and after a while, as she and
-Lewis watched the fireworks, she felt a shawl gently placed about her.
-She realised, without turning her head, that the hand was Skelton’s.
-The rest of the time he stood with them. They were separated from the
-house by great clumps of crape myrtle, then in its first pink glory.
-Some invisible bond seemed to unite all three. Skelton felt with the
-keenest delight the delicious emotions of youth--he was too true a
-philosopher not to rejoice that he could still feel--and he had always
-feared and dreaded that chilling of his sensibilities which is the
-beginning of old age. How bewitching was Sylvia Shapleigh to him then,
-and if ever they should be married how kind she would be to Lewis! when
-suddenly came a piercing sense of chagrin and chafing rebellion. He was
-bound by a chain. All coercion was abnormally hateful to him; and, as
-Bulstrode had said, the wonder was that he had not gone mad in thinking
-over how he had been bound by the act of a dead woman.
-
-Sylvia felt instinctively a change in him when he spoke. The fireworks
-were then over, and they went back to the house, where the dancers’
-feet still beat monotonously and the music throbbed. They entered
-through the library windows, and Sylvia admired, as she always did, the
-noble and imposing array of books.
-
-“Let them alone,” said Skelton, with his rare smile that always had
-something melancholy in it. “See what an old fossil it has made of me!”
-
-Sylvia smiled at him archly, and said: “Yes, an old fossil, indeed!
-But then, when you have written your great book, you will be among the
-immortals. You will never grow old or die.”
-
-The smile died away quickly from Skelton’s face. That book was another
-bond upon him--that unfulfilled promise to the world to produce
-something extraordinary. Nobody but Skelton knew the misery that
-unwritten book had cost him. It had shadowed his whole life.
-
-Lewis Pryor had begun to be sleepy by that time, and after supper
-had been served he slipped back into the library, to which the card
-players had not yet returned, and curled up on a leather sofa in the
-embrasure of a window, where he could see the river and listen to the
-music. He pulled the damask curtains around him, and lay there in a
-sort of tranquil, happy dream. How far away was the music, and how odd
-looked the negroes, peering in at the windows, with their great white
-eyeballs! and before Lewis knew it he was sound asleep, with only a
-part of his small, glossy-black head showing beyond the curtain.
-
-Bulstrode, as usual, was attentive to the decanters. He hated cards,
-and after he had played a few games of loo in the early part of the
-evening, and had lost some money, he had had enough of it. He wandered
-aimlessly from one room to another. It was all excessively pretty
-to him, but childish. His eyes followed Mrs. Blair, and he began to
-speculate, as he lounged about, his hands in the pockets of his tight
-black trousers, what would be the result if the Blairs should get all
-of Skelton’s wife’s money.
-
-“But I sha’n’t be here to see it,” he thought rather cheerfully, “for
-Skelton will outlast this old carcass.” Then he began to think, with
-the sardonic amusement that always inspired him when his mind was
-on that particular subject, how the bare possibility must infuriate
-Skelton; and, after all, it would be better to let Lewis alone, and
-give him Deerchase and all of Skelton’s own money--that would be quite
-as much as would be good for him. On the whole, he was glad he had told
-Mrs. Blair, and he hoped the dear soul would live to enjoy all that
-would be hers.
-
-As the night wore on and the fumes of the liquor Bulstrode had drank
-mounted to his brain, clearing it, as he always protested, the sense of
-slavery to Skelton vanished. He was a free man; he was not simply an
-embodied intellect kept by Skelton for his uses, as the feudal barons
-of old kept the wearers of the motley. Bulstrode began to walk about
-jovially, to hold up his head, to mend his slouchy gait and careless
-manners. He strolled up to Mrs. Blair, standing by the library door,
-with as much of an air as if he owned Deerchase. Skelton, who was not
-far off, said, smiling, to Sylvia:
-
-“Drink _does_ improve Bulstrode. He always declares that it makes a
-gentleman of him.”
-
-It was now getting towards four o’clock, and people with drives of
-ten and fifteen miles before them began to make the move to go. A
-few dancers were yet spinning about in the hall. Bulstrode gallantly
-complimented Mrs. Blair upon her looks, her gown--everything.
-Elizabeth, with a smile, received his praises. Then, emboldened, he
-began to be rash, saying:
-
-“And when the time comes, my dear madam, that you are in the commanding
-place you ought to have--when you are possessed of the power which
-money gives--when what is Skelton’s now shall be yours and your
-children’s--”
-
-“Hush!” cried Mrs. Blair nervously and turning pale. Her eyes sought
-for Skelton; he was not five feet off, and one look at him showed
-that he had heard every word, and he was too acute and instant of
-comprehension not to have taken it in at once. Sylvia Shapleigh had
-just gone off with her father, and practically Skelton and Mrs. Blair
-and Bulstrode were alone.
-
-“You think, perhaps,” said Bulstrode, laughing wickedly, “that I am
-afraid Mr. Skelton will hear--” Bulstrode had not seen Skelton, and
-thought him altogether out of earshot. “But, to use a very trifling
-standard of value, madam, I don’t at this moment care a twopenny damn
-whether Skelton hears me or not! The money ought to be yours one day,
-and it will be--” As he spoke, there was Skelton at his elbow.
-
-Skelton’s black eyes were simply blazing. He looked ready to fell
-Bulstrode with one blow of his sinewy arm. His first glance--a
-fearful one--seemed to sober Bulstrode instantly. The music was still
-crashing melodiously in the hall; the warm, perfumed air from the long
-greenhouse with its wide-open doors floated in; the yellow light from a
-group of wax candles in a sconce fell upon them.
-
-Skelton said not a word as he fixed his eyes wrathfully on Bulstrode,
-but Bulstrode seemed actually to wither under that look of concentrated
-rage.
-
-“Skelton,” said Bulstrode in an agony, the drops appearing upon his
-broad forehead, “I have violated no promise.” He stopped, feeling the
-weakness of the subterfuge.
-
-“I would scarcely exact a promise from one so incapable of keeping
-one,” answered Skelton in calm and modulated tones. He had but one wish
-then, and that was to get Mrs. Blair out of the way that he might work
-his will on Bulstrode. The restraint of her presence infuriated him,
-the more when she said, in trembling tones:
-
-“Pray, forgive him; he was imprudent, but the secret is safe with us.”
-
-“With us!” Then Blair knew as well.
-
-“I have no secret, Mrs. Blair,” answered Skelton with indomitable
-coolness. “What this--person told you is no secret. As it is very
-remote, and as there are chances of which Bulstrode himself does not
-take into account, I thought it useless to inform you. But, if you
-desire, I will, to-morrow morning, explain the whole thing to you and
-your husband.”
-
-“Pray--pray, do not!” cried Elizabeth.
-
-Skelton bowed, and said: “As you please. But rest assured that,
-although I never volunteered the information as this man has, yet I
-stand ready to answer all questions from those who are authorised to
-ask them.”
-
-Bulstrode gazed helplessly from one to the other, strangely overcome.
-There was something inexpressibly appealing in the look; he feared that
-he had lost the regard of the only woman who had for him any tenderness
-of feeling, had revealed a stain upon the boy he loved better than any
-creature in the world, and had mortally offended the man upon whom he
-depended for bread.
-
-“Skelton,” he cried, almost in tears, “I told her when the ruin
-that you promised Jack Blair seemed to be accomplished; when she,”
-indicating Mrs. Blair, “was likely to be houseless and homeless; when
-her only son lay stretched upon his bed more dead than alive; when, I
-tell you, any man who had not a stone in his bosom for a heart would
-have felt for her; when I would have laid down my worthless life for
-her to have brought ease. Can you blame me?”
-
-It was getting to be too much of a scene. Skelton turned towards
-Bulstrode, who was utterly abject and pitiable. The collapse of any
-human being is overpowering, but of a man with an intellect like
-Bulstrode’s it became terrible. Mrs. Blair’s large and beautiful eyes
-filled with tears that rolled down her cheeks and upon her bare, white
-neck. She put her hand on Bulstrode’s arm; it was the first kind touch
-of a woman’s hand that he had felt for thirty years.
-
-“It was your kindness, your tenderness for me and mine that made you
-tell me; and if all the world turns against you, I will not.”
-
-Bulstrode raised her hand to his lips and kissed it reverently, and her
-womanly compassion seemed to awaken some spark of manliness in him. He
-made no further appeal.
-
-Skelton all this time was cold with rage. He had been in rages with
-Bulstrode many times, and he had wreaked vengeance on him; he could say
-words to Bulstrode that would make him wince, but he could not say them
-before Mrs. Blair. After a moment he bowed low to her again.
-
-“I will not detain you further. Only, pray remember that you are at
-liberty to take me at my word at any time.”
-
-Mrs. Blair paused a moment, and then, recovering herself, replied, with
-something like haughtiness:
-
-“I have no desire to inquire further; and since this knowledge has
-certainly not made me any happier, and as I am clear that the affair
-is in the hands of the law, I have no intention of making it known to
-anybody whatever.” Then she said to Bulstrode: “Good-night, my friend.”
-
-Skelton accompanied her quite to her carriage. He doubted the capacity
-of any woman to keep a secret, and he was in that state of furious
-displeasure and disappointment that the betrayal of what he earnestly
-desired to keep secret would place any man. But he had an unshakable
-composure. Mrs. Blair, knowing him as well as she did, could not but
-admire his coolness under agitating circumstances.
-
-Everybody then was going. Great family carriages were being drawn up
-before the broad porch. The lights had burned low, and there was a
-greyness over everything; a cloud of white mists lay over the green
-fields; the woods were bathed in a ghostly haze; it was the unearthly
-morning hour which is neither night nor day.
-
-Skelton stood in the middle of the hall telling everybody good-bye,
-receiving calmly and smilingly congratulations on his charming ball.
-Sylvia Shapleigh, her eyes languid with excitement and want of sleep,
-followed in her mother’s wake to say good-bye. She knew Skelton’s
-countenance perfectly, and she alone perceived that something strange
-and displeasing had happened.
-
-At last everybody was gone, even the musicians, the negroes--everybody.
-Skelton stood in the porch watching the rosy dawn over the delicious
-landscape, his face sombre, his whole air one of tension. His fury
-against Bulstrode had partly abated. On the contrary, a feeling of
-cynical pleasure at the way he would confute him took its place.
-So, the heedless old vagabond had gone over to Newington with that
-cock-and-bull story of a fortune whenever he, Skelton, was married or
-buried; and Mrs. Blair and her husband had been foolish enough to
-believe him. Well, they would find out their mistake in short order.
-
-Skelton went straight to the library. Bulstrode was still there,
-sitting in a great chair leaning heavily forward. The daylight had
-begun to penetrate through the heavy curtains, and the candles were
-spluttering in their sockets. The first shock over, Bulstrode had got
-back some of his courage. Skelton, with an inscrutable smile on his
-face, walked up to him. Never was there a greater contrast between two
-men--one, a thoroughbred from the crown of his head to the sole of his
-foot, accustomed to the habit of command; the other, bourgeois all
-over, and only asserting himself by an effort. Bulstrode, meaning to
-show that he was not cowed, began, like a vulgarian, to be violent.
-
-“Look here, Skelton,” he began aggressively, “it’s done, and
-there’s no use talking. But recollect that I’m Lewis Pryor’s
-guardian--recollect--I--er--” Here Bulstrode began to flounder.
-
-“I recollect it all,” answered Skelton contemptuously; “and I
-recollect, too, that you are still half drunk. When you are sober--”
-
-“Sober,” said poor Bulstrode with something like a groan of despair.
-“When I’m sober I’m the most miserable, contemptible man on God’s
-earth. When I’m sober you can do anything with me. I’m sober now, I’m
-afraid.”
-
-He was grotesque even in his deepest emotions. Skelton’s quick eye had
-caught sight of Lewis Pryor lying asleep on the sofa. He went towards
-him and drew back tenderly the curtains that half enveloped him. The
-boy was sleeping the sleep of youth and health, a slight flush upon his
-dark cheek, his hair tumbled over his handsome head, one arm thrown
-off; there was something wonderfully attractive in his boyish beauty.
-
-“Look at him well,” said Skelton, with a new, strange pride in his
-voice. “See how manly, how well formed he is--slight, but a powerful
-fellow--worth two of that hulking Blair boy. See his forehead; did you
-ever see a fool with a forehead like that? and the cut of the mouth
-and chin! Think you, Bulstrode, that with this boy I will ever let the
-Blairs get any of that money that you foolishly told them they would?
-Could not any father be proud of such a boy? I tell you there are times
-when I yearn over him womanishly--when I cannot trust myself near him
-for fear I will clasp him in my arms. I envy Blair but one thing, and
-that is, that he can show the fondness for his son that I feel for mine
-but cannot show. Did you think, did you dream for a moment, that I
-would not see this boy righted?” He said “this boy” with an accent of
-such devoted pride that Bulstrode could only gaze astounded, well as he
-knew Skelton’s secret devotion to the boy. He had never in all his life
-seen Skelton so moved by anything. Skelton bent down and kissed Lewis
-on the forehead. If the portrait of Skelton’s great-grandfather that
-hung over the mantelpiece had stepped down from its frame and kissed
-the boy, Bulstrode could scarcely have been more surprised. No mother
-over her first-born could have shown more fondness than Skelton.
-
-“Go, now,” presently cried Skelton. His anger had quite vanished. It
-seemed as if in that one burst of paternal feeling all pride and anger
-had melted away. He could defy the Blairs now. Bulstrode might have
-retaliated on him what he had said to Mrs. Blair about it. He might
-have said: “How can you prove it? So anxious you were to give this
-child a respectable parentage, that you cannot now undo, if you will,
-your own work. And who could not see an object in it that would make
-people believe you seized upon this boy merely as an instrument against
-the Blairs?” But he said not a word. He got up and went out, and, as he
-passed, he laid his hand upon the boy’s head.
-
-“I, too, have loved him well,” he said.
-
-“Yes,” said Skelton, “and that may help you yet. No man that loves that
-boy can my anger hold against.”
-
-And so poor Lewis, who often felt and said sadly that he had no one to
-love him, was fondled adoringly by the last person in the world that he
-would have expected.
-
-Skelton shut and locked the library door, and, tenderly placing the
-boy’s head in a more comfortable position, sat down in a great chair
-and watched him. He could not at that moment bear to have Lewis out of
-his sight. Yes, the time had now come that he could tell him what had
-burned within him for so long. The boy was in himself so graceful, so
-gifted, there was so much to give him, that the foolish world would
-be compelled to court him and to forget that stain upon him. Skelton
-said to himself that, had he the choice of every quality a boy should
-have, he would have chosen just such a mind and character as Lewis
-had. He was so thoroughly well balanced; he had a fine and vigorous
-mind, high up in the scale of talent, but far removed from the abnormal
-quality of genius; there would be for him no stupendous infantile
-performances to haunt the whole of his future life, no overweighting
-of any one faculty to the disproportion of the rest. And then, he
-had an eaglet’s spirit. Skelton smiled when he remembered that no
-human being had ever so stood upon punctilio with him as this little
-black-eyed boy. He had, too, an exquisite common sense, which enabled
-him to submit readily to proper authority; he was obedient enough to
-Bulstrode. And then, he had so much pride that he could never be vain;
-and he had naturally the most modest and graceful little air in the
-world. Ah, to think that with such a boy the Blairs should dream that
-heaven and earth would not be moved to see him righted! And, since the
-boy was the instrument to defeat the Blairs, there was no reason that
-Skelton should not follow up that fancy for Sylvia Shapleigh. On the
-whole, he could part with the money with an excellent grace to Lewis,
-and he would still be rich, according to the standard of the people
-about him. Sylvia would forgive Lewis’s existence. Skelton was no mean
-judge of women, and he knew instinctively that Sylvia Shapleigh would
-be the most forgiving woman in the world for what had happened in the
-past, and the most unforgiving one of any future disloyalty. He even
-smiled to himself when he imagined the discomfiture of the Blairs. He
-would give them no warning; and he felt perfectly certain that Blair
-would not avail himself of that suggestion made to Mrs. Blair to
-ride over to Deerchase and see for himself. And then, if Sylvia would
-marry him, imagine the excitement of the Blairs, the fierce delight,
-and then the chagrin, the disappointment of finding out that Lewis
-Pryor was to step in and get all that they had looked upon as theirs.
-Skelton even began to see that possibly this forcing a decision upon
-him was not half a bad thing. He had been haunted for some months by
-Sylvia Shapleigh’s wit and charm; her beauty, he rightly thought, was
-overestimated, but her power to please was not esteemed half enough. He
-had begun lately for the first time to look forward apprehensively to
-old age. He sometimes fancied himself sitting alone in his latter days
-at his solitary hearth, and the thought was hateful to him. He realised
-well enough that only a woman in a thousand could make him happy, but
-Sylvia Shapleigh, he began to feel, was the woman. And, considering
-the extreme affection he felt for Lewis, it was not unlikely--here
-Skelton laughed to himself--that he was by nature a domestic character.
-He began to fancy life at Deerchase with Sylvia, and became quite
-fascinated with the picture drawn by his own imagination. She was a
-woman well calculated to gratify any man’s pride, and deep down in his
-own heart Skelton knew that was the great thing with him. And she had a
-heart--in fact, Skelton would have been a little afraid of a creature
-with so much feeling if she had not had likewise a fine understanding.
-And if that one boy of his gave him such intense happiness, even with
-all the wrath and humiliation that had been brought upon him thereby,
-what could he not feel for other children in whose existence there
-was no shame? And then, the thought of a lonely and unloved old age
-became doubly hateful to him. Until lately he had not really been able
-to persuade himself that he must bear the common fate; that he, Richard
-Skelton, must some day grow old, infirm, dependent. Seeing, though,
-that youth had departed in spite of him, he began to fear that old age
-might, after all, come upon him. But growing old soothed by Sylvia’s
-charming companionship and tender ministrations, and with new ties,
-new emotions, new pleasures, was not terrifying to him. He revolved
-these things in his mind, occasionally looking fondly at the sleeping
-boy, who was indeed all that Skelton said he was. Skelton had no idea
-of falling asleep, but gradually a delicious languor stole on him. How
-merrily the blackbirds were singing outside, and the sparrows chirped
-and chattered under the eaves! Afar off he heard in the stillness of
-the summer morning the tinkling of the bells as the cows were being
-driven to the pasture, then all the sweet country sounds melted away
-into golden silence, and he slept.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVII.
-
-
-It was well on towards twelve o’clock before either Skelton or Lewis
-awaked. The candles had long since burnt out, and the great, square,
-sombre room was quite dark. Since the early morning the sky had
-become overcast, and a steady, cold rain was falling outside. The
-penetrating damp air chilled Skelton to the bone, and he waked with
-an uncomfortable start. At the very same instant, Lewis, lying on the
-sofa, also roused, and both pairs of eyes, so strangely alike, were
-fixed on each other.
-
-Skelton was still under the spell of that burst of parental passion
-that had overcome him the night before. His sleep had been full of
-dreams of the boy, and when he waked and saw Lewis’s black eyes gazing
-with sleepy wonder into his own, it seemed the most natural thing in
-the world.
-
-There was always something compelling in Skelton’s glance, but the
-affectionate expression that gave his eyes a velvety softness, like
-a woman’s, was altogether new to Lewis Pryor. It exercised a certain
-magnetism over him, and he felt his own gaze fixed on Skelton’s by a
-power he could not understand. He lay there for some minutes under the
-fascination of Skelton’s eyes, with a half-sleepy curiosity; then he
-rolled off the sofa, and, still obeying a new and strange impulse,
-went up to him. As Lewis stood looking down upon the man that had never
-in all those years shown him the slightest mark of personal fondness,
-some emotion novel and inscrutable and overpoweringly sweet seemed to
-wake within his boyish heart. He felt instinctively the forging of a
-new bond, but it was all misty and uncertain to his mind. The waking
-in the strange room, instead of his own little cosy bedroom, with Bob
-Skinny shaking him and pleading with him “to git up, fur de Lord’s
-sake, Marse Lewis”--the rising ready dressed, the finding of Skelton
-looking at him with that expression of passionate tenderness, was like
-a dream to him. Skelton put out his hand--his impulse was to open his
-arms and strain the boy to his breast--and said:
-
-“Lewis, have you slept well?”
-
-“Yes, sir,” after a pause answered Lewis.
-
-“So have I,” said Skelton, “although I did not mean to sleep when I
-threw myself in this chair. But you should sleep well and peacefully,
-my boy. Tell me,” he continued, holding the boy’s hand in his strong
-yet gentle clasp, “tell me, have I, in all these years that we have
-lived together, have I ever spoken unkindly to you?”
-
-Lewis thought for a moment gravely, bringing his narrow black brows
-together.
-
-“No, sir, not that I remember,” he replied, after a moment.
-
-“It is not likely that I would,” said Skelton in a voice of the most
-thrilling sweetness, “for you are mine--you are more to me than the
-whole world. You are my son.”
-
-If Skelton expected Lewis to fall upon his neck when these words
-were uttered, he was cruelly disappointed. The boy drew himself up
-perfectly rigid. He put up his arm as if to ward off a blow, and turned
-deathly pale. Skelton, watching him with jealous affection, felt as if
-a knife had entered his heart when he saw the pallor, the distress,
-that quickly overcame Lewis. Neither spoke for some moments. Skelton,
-leaning forwards in his chair, his face pale and set, but his eyes
-burning, and his heart thumping like a nervous woman’s, watched the
-boy in a sort of agony of affection, waiting for the answering thrill
-that was to bring Lewis to his arms. But Lewis involuntarily drew
-farther off. A deep flush succeeded his first paleness; his face worked
-piteously, and suddenly he burst into a passion of tears.
-
-Skelton fell back in his chair, with something like a groan. He had
-not meant to tell it in that way; he had been betrayed into it, as it
-were, by the very tenderness of his love, by the scorn of the idea that
-anybody should suspect that he would permit the Blairs, or anybody
-in the world, to profit to Lewis’s disadvantage. He had sometimes in
-bitterness said to himself that love was not meant for him. Whether
-he loved--as he truly did--in that first early passion for Elizabeth
-Armistead, he was scorned and cast aside; or whether he was loved with
-adoring tenderness, as he had been by the woman he married, yet it laid
-upon him a burden that he had carried angrily and rebelliously for many
-years. And seeing in Sylvia Shapleigh a woman that in his maturity he
-could love, there was linked with it either making his enemies rich
-at his expense, or else proclaiming the stain upon this boy to the
-world. And he did so love the boy! But after a while his indomitable
-courage rose. Lewis was excited; he did not fully take in what had been
-said to him; he could not understand what splendid possibilities were
-opened to him in those few words, how completely the face of existence
-was changed for him. Skelton tried to speak, but his voice died in his
-throat. He made a mighty effort, and it returned to him, but strained
-and husky.
-
-“Lewis,” he said, “what distresses you? When I said that you were mine,
-I meant that henceforth you should be acknowledged to the world; that
-you should have from me all the tenderness that has been pent up in my
-heart for so many years; that you should have a great fortune. If you
-think I have wronged you, is not this reparation enough?”
-
-“No,” said the boy after a while, controlling his sobs; “I know what it
-means if I am your son, Mr. Skelton. It means that I cannot hold up my
-head among honourable people again. Nothing can make up to me for that.”
-
-Skelton remained silent. An impulse of pride in the boy came to him.
-Surely, Lewis was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. No boy of
-mean extraction could have that lofty sensibility. Lewis, gaining
-courage, spoke again, this time with dogged obstinacy.
-
-“Mr. Bulstrode always told me that I was the son of Thomas Pryor
-and Margaret Pryor; and I have my father’s books and his picture
-upstairs--and--and--I believe he _is_ my father, Mr. Skelton.”
-
-To hear him speak of another man as his father gave Skelton a pang such
-as he had not felt for many years.
-
-“But,” he said gently, “it can be proved; and you must see for
-yourself, Lewis, how immensely it would be to your worldly advantage.”
-
-“It is not to my advantage to know--to feel--that--that I am nobody’s
-son; that my mother was-- No! no!” he cried, bursting into tears again,
-“I’ll not believe it.”
-
-It was plain to Skelton from the boy’s manner that the idea was not
-wholly new to him. After a painful pause Skelton asked quietly:
-
-“Have you ever had a suspicion, a feeling, that you were not what the
-world believes you to be?”
-
-Lewis would not answer this, and Skelton repeated it. Lewis remained
-obstinately silent, and that told the whole story.
-
-“And,” again asked Skelton, his voice trembling, “have you never felt
-any of those instinctive emotions, any of that natural feeling towards
-me, that I felt towards you the first moment I saw you, when you
-were barely six years old? for I tell you that, had I never seen you
-until this moment, there is something--there is the strong voice of
-Nature--that would tell me you were my son.”
-
-To this, also, Lewis would make no answer. It had begun to dawn upon
-his boyish soul that, along with his own keen shame and distress, he
-was inflicting something infinitely keener and more distressing upon
-Skelton.
-
-There was a longer pause after this. Lewis ceased his sobbing, and sat,
-with a white and wretched face, looking down, the image of shame and
-sorrow. As for Skelton, his heart was torn with a tempest of feeling.
-Disappointment and remorse and love and longing battled fiercely within
-him. With all his wealth, with all his power, with all his capacity to
-charm, he could not bring to him that one childish heart for which he
-yearned. He was not unprepared for shame and even reproaches on the
-boy’s part, but this stubborn resistance was maddening. A dull-red
-flush glowed in his dark face. He was not used to asking forgiveness,
-but if the boy exacted it he would not even withhold that.
-
-“It is hard--it is hard for a father to ask forgiveness of his child,
-but I ask it of you, Lewis. Your mother granted it me with her dying
-breath. Will you be more unforgiving than she? Will you deny me the
-reparation that would have made her happy?”
-
-Lewis raised his black eyes to Skelton’s.
-
-“Yes, I forgive you,” he said simply; “but, Mr. Skelton, you can’t
-expect me to give up my good name without a struggle for it. Wouldn’t
-you struggle for yours, sir?”
-
-“Yes,” answered Skelton, with that glow of pride which he always felt
-when Lewis showed manliness of feeling.
-
-“Then, sir, you can’t complain when I--when Mr. Bulstrode--Mr.
-Bulstrode is my guardian, sir--”
-
-“But, Lewis,” continued Skelton, without the smallest impatience but
-with a loving insistence, “this is trifling. Why should I open this
-terrible subject unless everything concerning it were proved--unless it
-were demanded? Do you think this a sudden madness on my part? It is
-not. It is, I admit, a sudden determination. I had meant to wait until
-you were twenty-one--until you were prepared in a measure for it; but
-circumstances, and the love I bear you, Lewis, have hastened it.”
-
-Lewis sat gravely considering.
-
-“Then, Mr. Skelton, let it rest until I am twenty-one. I am only
-fifteen now--that is,” with a burning blush, “Mr. Bulstrode says I am
-only fifteen, and I am not tall for my age--and I can’t--depend upon
-myself as I ought; and I think it’s only fair, sir, to wait until I am
-a man before forcing this thing on me. But I think it only fair to you,
-sir,” he added after a pause, and rising, “to say that I mean to make
-the best fight for my good name that I can. It may be as you say; it
-may be that--that my mother--” here the boy choked. “I can’t say it,
-sir. I don’t remember her, but I tell you, Mr. Skelton,--if--for the
-sake of all your money I agreed that my mother was--I mean, sir, if
-any man for the sake of money, or anything else, would dishonour his
-mother, it would be a villainy. I don’t express myself very well, but I
-know what I mean; and I ask you, sir, would you act differently in my
-place?”
-
-Lewis had truly said that he was not tall for his age, but as he spoke
-his slight, boyish figure seemed to rise to man’s stature. At first he
-was hesitating and incoherent in his speech, but before he finished
-he fixed his eyes on Skelton’s so boldly that Skelton almost flinched
-under the glance. But still there was in his heart that proud instinct
-of the father which made itself felt, saying:
-
-“This, indeed, is my son--my soul--my own spirit.”
-
-Lewis waited, as if for an answer. Skelton, whose patience and mildness
-had suffered no diminution, answered him gently:
-
-“Our cases are different. You are more unfortunate than I, but one
-thing I feel deeply: the regard you have for your good name; the
-reluctance you have to exchange it for any worldly consideration is
-not lost on me. On the contrary, it makes you still dearer to me. I
-acknowledge, had you not recognised the point of honour involved, I
-should have been disappointed. But I am not disappointed in you--I
-never can be.”
-
-Lewis persisted in his question, though.
-
-“But won’t you tell me, Mr. Skelton--suppose you had been offered
-Deerchase, and all your fortune and everything, if you would agree that
-your mother was--was--I can’t say it, sir. _And would you have taken
-it?_”
-
-The answer was drawn from Skelton against his will; but the boy stood
-with the courage and persistence of an accusing conscience, asking the
-question of which the answer seemed so conclusive to his young mind.
-
-“No,” at last answered Skelton in a low voice.
-
-“Then, sir,” said Lewis eagerly, “do you blame me for acting likewise?”
-
-“But there is no volition in the case,” said Skelton. “It is forced
-upon you, my poor boy. You have no choice.”
-
-“At least,” said Lewis, after a moment, while his eyes filled with
-tears, “at least, I will stand up for my mother as long as I can; at
-least, I will make the best fight for her own good name that I know
-how. And I tell you, Mr. Skelton, that even--even if I am forced, as
-you say--to--to--acknowledge it, I’ll never profit by it. This I made
-up my mind to a long time ago--ever since I first began to wonder--”
-
-Skelton knew then that, in the boy’s crude, inexperienced way, he had
-prepared himself to meet the emergency when it came. Lewis turned to
-go out of the room, but Skelton called him back and silently drew the
-boy towards him. He passed his hand over Lewis’s closely cropped black
-head and rested it fondly on his shoulder, all the time looking into
-the boy’s eyes with tenderness unspeakable. In that moment a faint
-stirring of Nature came to Lewis. He began to feel his heart swell
-towards Skelton with a feeling of oneness. Skelton saw in his troubled,
-changeful look a new expression. Something like affection quivered in
-the boy’s face. Skelton bent and kissed him softly on the forehead, and
-Lewis went out silently.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVIII.
-
-
-Skelton remained in the library to recover his composure. He sat
-staring, with unseeing eyes, at the fireplace filled with cedar boughs.
-Pride and intense affection tugged at his heart. Never, in all his
-life, had his proud spirit so abased itself as before this boy, whom
-he loved with the concentrated passion of his whole life. He had
-not sent him to school from the purest softness of heart, because
-he was not happy with Lewis out of his sight. He had watched over
-him silently, and at last the barriers of his pride had been swept
-away by the torrent of his affection; and with what result? He might
-indeed feel proud of the tenacity with which Lewis had held on to what
-he thought was his honour; but had not resentment and hatred been
-planted in his heart by the revelation made prematurely by Skelton’s
-tenderness? And the idea that the Blairs should ever profit to that
-boy’s disadvantage--the mere thought enraged him. And Lewis was his own
-son in many particulars. His promise that he would never profit by his
-own dishonour was no mere boyish threat. Nothing was more likely than
-that he should hold to it most steadfastly.
-
-After a while Skelton rose and went out into the hall. Under Bridges’
-masterly management everything had assumed its usual appearance,
-and, as the day was singularly cold for the season and the downpour
-incessant, a little sparkling wood fire had been lighted in the broad
-fireplace. Skelton went up to it and warmed his hands and chilled feet
-before the cheerful blaze. He was still in his evening dress, and the
-daylight, dull as it was, showed plainly certain marks of agitation
-upon his features. He looked every day of his forty years. Bob Skinny
-came up in a moment to ask if Skelton would have his breakfast then.
-
-“Yes,” he answered briefly. “Where is Mr. Lewis Pryor?”
-
-“He gone up sty’ars, sah, tuggin’ he dog arter him, an’ I heah him lock
-he do’. I make Sam Trotter k’yar him some breakfas’, an’ Sam say Marse
-Lewis hardly corndescen’ ter open de do’, an’ didn’ eat nuttin’ hardly.”
-
-Skelton was troubled at this. It was a sure sign that Lewis was in
-trouble when he clung desperately to Service, his dog.
-
-Skelton had his breakfast on a little round table in the corner of the
-hall by the fire, and when it was taken away he sat moodily in the
-same spot, trifling with a cigar. He had almost forgotten the ball the
-night before. From where he sat his weary eyes took in all the sad and
-monotonous landscape--the river, now a sea of grey mist as far as the
-eye could reach; the sullen lapping of the water upon the sandy stretch
-of shore, distinctly heard in the profound stillness; and the steady
-drip, drip, of the rain from the roof, and the tall elms, and the
-stunted alders by the edge of the water, was inexpressibly cheerless.
-Even the great hall, as he looked around it, was dreary. There were
-neither women nor children in that house, and it never had an inhabited
-look. Over everything was an air of chill and precise elegance that
-often struck Skelton painfully. His glance swept involuntarily to the
-portrait of his father, taken when a boy, that so much resembled Lewis;
-and then, as his eye travelled round upon the pictures of the dead and
-gone Skeltons, he was solemnly reminded how short had been their lives.
-They were all young; there was not a grey head in the lot.
-
-Presently he rose and stood before the fire, gazing out of the window
-with melancholy indifference, and after a while Bulstrode slouched
-across the farther end of the hall. He did not go near Skelton, who
-unconsciously grew rigid when he recognised Bulstrode’s passing
-presence. He had not for one instant forgotten Bulstrode’s foolish and,
-to him, exasperating disclosure to Mrs. Blair; but, after all, nothing
-ever could restrain that reckless tongue. Getting angry over it was the
-poorest business imaginable.
-
-In a short while Skelton went off to his room. The house, where twelve
-hours before there had been lights and music, and dancing and feasting,
-was now as quiet as the grave. The only sound heard was the incessant
-drip, drip, of the water from the eaves of the house, and from the
-sodden trees, and from the damp masses of shrubbery, and the moaning of
-the grey river. Over the whole place, where last night had been a great
-_fête_, was rain and gloom and sadness; and of the three persons whose
-splendid home was here, each was alone and wrapped in silent and bitter
-meditation.
-
-Lewis Pryor spent the whole afternoon, with no company but his dog, in
-his own room, gazing, just as Skelton was doing at that very moment,
-with melancholy eyes out upon the watery landscape. How strange it was,
-thought Lewis, that the river, which made the whole scene so lovely
-and sparkling on a sunny day, should make it so sad on a dark day! Far
-down the troubled water, as the mists scurried to and fro, whipped by
-a sharp east wind, he could occasionally see the three desolate pine
-trees at Lone Point. They waved their giant arms madly, and fought the
-wild rain and the blast. The boy’s heart sank lower every hour. Yes, it
-was come--the thing that he had feared for so long with a biting fear.
-He was told that he was nobody’s son; that foolish old Mrs. Shapleigh
-was right when she said he looked like Skelton’s father--like that
-odious picture in the hall. How he hated it, and how he would like to
-throw it in the fire! But though his spirits sank, his courage remained
-high. A fortune was a very fine thing, but there was such a thing as
-paying too dear for it. The determination not to give in--to make a
-fight for his own respectability--grew and strengthened hourly within
-him. He went and got his few books with the name “Thomas Pryor, M. A.,”
-written in them, and names and dates. Then he got out the picture of
-the trim, sandy-haired Thomas Pryor, and tried vainly to see a likeness
-between his own clear-cut olive face and the one before him. Alas!
-there was no likeness. He then studied intently the pen-and-ink sketch
-of Mrs. Pryor. The coloring, which had really made some resemblance
-between her and Lewis, was lacking in the picture, and the cast of
-features was wholly unlike. Lewis got small comfort from that picture.
-He felt an inexpressible weight upon his boyish soul; he longed for
-comfort; he thought that he must be the only boy in the world who had
-never in all his life had any comforter except his dog, or anybody to
-whom he could confide his troubles. Something brought Hilary Blair to
-mind, and the scene at the bedside as Hilary held his mother’s hand and
-fondled it; and then Lewis laid his head down in the cushioned window
-seat and cried bitterly. The twilight came on; he heard the servants
-moving about below, and presently a tap came at the door. Bob Skinny
-announced, “Dinnah, my young marse!”
-
-Lewis winced at the word, which, however, was merely a magniloquent
-African compliment that Bob Skinny offered to all the very young
-gentlemen he knew.
-
-Lewis and Skelton were remarkably alike in their personal habits.
-Each of them made a careful toilet and strove to disguise the marks
-of emotion; they were both naturally reticent and had a delicate and
-sensitive pride. Lewis took old Service down to dinner with him. Being
-still low-spirited, he clung to the dog. Skelton noticed this, and it
-told volumes. Bulstrode had expected, tremblingly, all the afternoon, a
-summons to Skelton, and, not getting it, was in doubt about appearing
-at dinner. In truth, Skelton had by no means forgotten him, but he
-rather scorned to take Bulstrode too seriously. He had smiled rather
-grimly as he heard Bulstrode during the afternoon make his way down to
-the library. “Gone to reading to distract his mind,” he thought. Just
-as Lewis showed depression by holding on to Service, Bulstrode showed
-it by leaving his few old friends that he kept up in his own room, and
-going down into the grand new library after a mental sedative in the
-shape of a new book. The effect on this particular occasion had been
-such that he screwed up his courage to dine with Skelton.
-
-It seemed as if within the last twelve hours a likeness between Skelton
-and Lewis had come out incalculably strong. Each seemed to take
-his emotions in the same way: there were the same lines of tension
-about the mouth, the same look of indomitable courage in the eye,
-the same modulation in the voice. Bulstrode could not but be struck
-by it. Dinner passed off quite as usual. Skelton made a few remarks
-to Lewis, which Lewis answered respectfully and intelligently, as
-usual. Bulstrode occasionally growled out a sentence. Bob Skinny,
-elated by the approaching departure of the hated Bridges, flourished
-the decanters about freely, but for once Bulstrode was moderate. To
-judge by casual appearances, nothing had happened. After dinner, Lewis
-disappeared into the library, still lugging his dog after him. Skelton,
-whose heart yearned over him, would have liked to follow him, but he
-wisely refrained.
-
-The little fire had been renewed, and a pleasant warmth was diffused
-through the lofty hall. Sam Trotter, under Bob Skinny’s direction,
-brought candles, in tall silver candlesticks, and put them on the
-round mahogany table in the corner by the chimney-piece. Bulstrode was
-lumbering about the hall with his hands in his pockets. Skelton walked
-up to the fireplace and seated himself, with a cigar and a book, as if
-unconscious of Bulstrode’s presence. By degrees, Bulstrode’s walk grew
-stealthy; then he seated himself on the opposite side of the hearth and
-gazed absently into the fire.
-
-The same stillness prevailed as in the afternoon. This struck Skelton
-more unpleasantly than usual. He would have liked to see Lewis romping
-about, and making cheerful, merry, boyish noises. But there was no
-sound except the dreary sough of the rain and the wind, and the harsh
-beating of the overhanging trees against the cornice of the house.
-The wind seemed to be coming up stronger from the bay, and the waves
-rolling in sometimes drowned the falling of the rain. For two hours the
-stillness was unbroken. Then, Skelton having laid down his book for a
-moment, Bulstrode asked suddenly:
-
-“And how did he take it?”
-
-Skelton knew perfectly well what Bulstrode meant, and, not being a
-person of subterfuges, answered exactly to the point:
-
-“Like a man.”
-
-“I thought so,” remarked Bulstrode. If he had studied ten years how to
-placate Skelton he could not have hit it off more aptly.
-
-“He grasped the point of honour in a moment--even quicker than I
-anticipated. He said he would rather be respectably born than have all
-I could give him. The little rebel actually proposed to fight it out;
-he ‘hoped I would wait until he was twenty-one’; he ‘wouldn’t profit
-by it anyhow!’ and he ‘intended to make the best fight he could.’
-Bulstrode, I almost forgive you for having forced that disclosure on
-me when I remember the exquisite satisfaction--yes, good God! the
-_tremendous_ satisfaction--I felt in that boy when I saw that dogged
-determination of his to hold to what he calls his honour.”
-
-Bulstrode knew by these words that Skelton did not intend to turn him
-out of doors.
-
-“You ought to have seen his face the day that dratted Mrs. Shapleigh
-told him that he looked like that picture.” Bulstrode jerked his thumb
-over his shoulder towards the picture of Skelton’s father. “I thought
-he would have died of shame.”
-
-Skelton’s face at this became sad, but it was also wonderfully tender.
-Bulstrode kept on:
-
-“I never saw you both so much alike as to-night. The boy’s face has
-hardened; he is going through with a terrible experience, and he will
-come out of it a man, not a boy. And your face, Skelton, seemed to be
-softening.”
-
-“And, by heaven, my heart is softening, too!” cried Skelton. “One would
-have thought that I would have kicked you out of doors for babbling my
-private affairs, but your love for that boy, and his love for you--and
-so-- I am a weak fool, and forgive you. I believe I am waking up to the
-emotional side of human nature.”
-
-“It’s a monstrous sight deeper and bigger and greater than the
-intellectual side,” answered Bulstrode. “That’s what I keep telling
-that poor devil, Conyers. I ain’t got any emotional nature myself, to
-speak of; you have, though. But you’ve been an intellectual toper
-for so long, that I daresay you’d forgotten all about your emotions
-yourself. Some men like horse racing, and some like to accumulate
-money, and some like to squander it; but your dissipation is in mental
-processes of all sorts. You like to read for reading’s sake, and write
-for writing’s sake, and your mind has got to that stage, like Michael
-Scott’s devil, it has got to be employed or it will rend you. I never
-saw such an inveterate appetite for ideas as you have. But will it ever
-come to anything? Will you ever write that book?”
-
-Skelton turned a little pale. The fierce ambition within him, the
-pride, the licensed egotism, all made him fear defeat; and suppose
-this work--But why call it a work? it was as yet inchoate. However, it
-pleased some subtile self-love of Skelton’s to have Bulstrode discuss
-him. Bulstrode was no respecter of persons; and Skelton appreciated so
-much the man’s intellectual makeup, that it pleased him to think that
-Bulstrode, after living with him all these years, still found him an
-object of deep and abiding interest. So he did not check him. Few men
-object to having others talk about themselves.
-
-“Whether I shall ever live to finish it--or to begin it--is a question
-I sometimes ask myself,” said Skelton. “When I look around at these,”
-pointing with his cigar to the portraits hanging on the wall, “I feel
-the futility of it. Forty-six is the oldest of them; most of them
-went off before thirty-five. Strange, for we are not physically bad
-specimens.”
-
-They were not. Skelton himself looked like a man destined for long
-life. He was abstemious in every way, and singularly correct in his
-habits.
-
-Bulstrode remained huddled in his chair, and, as usual, when
-encouraged, went on talking without the slightest reticence.
-
-“Sometimes, when I sit and look at you, I ask myself, ‘Is he a genius
-after all?’ and then I go and read that essay of yours, Voices of the
-People, and shoot me if I believe any young fellow of twenty that ever
-lived could do any better! But that very finish and completeness--it
-would have been better if it had been crude.”
-
-“It is crude, very crude,” answered Skelton with fierce energy, dashing
-his cigar stump into the fire. “I have things on my library table that
-would make that appear ridiculous.”
-
-“O Lord, no!” replied Bulstrode calmly.
-
-Skelton felt like throwing him out of the window at that, but Bulstrode
-was quite unconscious of giving offense. His next words, though, partly
-soothed Skelton’s self-love:
-
-“Queer thing, that, how a man’s lucky strokes sometimes are his
-destruction. Now, that pamphlet--most unfortunate thing that ever
-befell you. The next worst thing for you was that you were born to one
-fortune and married another. Had you been a poor man your career would
-have been great; but, as it is, handicapped at every step by money, you
-can do nothing. For a man of parts to be thrown upon his own resources
-is to be cast into the very lap of Fortune, as old Ben Franklin puts
-it. But your resources have never been tested.”
-
-There was in this an exquisite and subtile flattery to Skelton, because
-Bulstrode was so unconscious of it.
-
-“How about yourself?” asked Skelton after a while. “You were cast in
-the lap of Fortune.”
-
-“O Lord!” cried Bulstrode, “that’s a horse of another colour. I came
-into the world with a parching thirst that can never be satiated. But,
-mind you, Mr. Skelton, had I not been a poor man I could not have been
-what I am; you know what that is. I can’t make a living, but _I know
-Greek_. I can’t keep away from the brandy bottle, but if old Homer
-and our friend Horace and a few other eminent Greeks and Romans were
-destroyed this minute I could reproduce much of them. It maddens me
-sometimes; the possession of great powers is, after all, a terrible
-gift. Lewis Pryor has got it, but he has got it tempered with good
-sense. For God’s sake, Skelton, don’t make him a rich man! Look at
-yourself, ruined by it. The boy has fine parts. Some day, if he is let
-alone and allowed to work for his living, he will be remarkable; he
-will be more--he will be admirable! But weight him down with a fortune,
-and you will turn him into a country squire like Jack Blair, or into a
-_dilettante_ like yourself. That’s all of it.”
-
-Skelton lighted his cigar and began to smoke savagely. Was ever
-anything like the perversity of fate--for he recognised as true every
-word that Bulstrode had uttered. Because he had much money he had
-started out to make Blair feel the weight of his resentment, and he
-had spent fifteen or sixteen years at the business, and the result was
-that Blair was to-day better off than he had ever been since he came to
-man’s estate, as he was free at last from a vice that had been eating
-him up body and soul and substance for years. Skelton longed to heap
-benefits on Lewis Pryor, but he very much doubted if any of those
-things which he designed as benefits would make the boy either happier
-or better.
-
-Bulstrode’s tongue continued to wag industriously. It seemed as if by
-some psychic influence he followed the very train of thought then going
-through Skelton’s mind.
-
-“The women all like Lewis. I tell you, that’s a very dangerous gift for
-a man--worse, even, than genius.”
-
-Skelton quite agreed with this sentiment. If the late Mrs. Skelton had
-not been so distractedly fond of him, for example, and had simply done
-for him what any reasonably affectionate wife would have done for her
-husband, he would not now be in the hateful position in which he found
-himself. Her relations would be welcome to her money, but she had put
-it quite out of the question that it should ever be theirs.
-
-“Women are monstrous queer creatures, anyhow,” resumed Bulstrode
-despondingly, as if his whole past and future hinged upon the queerness
-of women.
-
-Skelton could not forbear smiling a little. Bulstrode had suffered
-about as little from the sex as any man that ever lived.
-
-“Woman, as we know her, is a comparatively modern invention,” answered
-Skelton, still smiling. “She didn’t exist until a few hundred years
-ago.”
-
-“That’s it,” answered Bulstrode eagerly. “It’s the only fault I find
-with my old chums, the classics; they didn’t have any right notions
-at all about women; they didn’t know anything between a goddess and
-a slave. But these modern fellows, with Will Shakespeare at the head
-of the crew, know it all, blamed if they don’t! There is that little
-Juliet, for example--all love and lies, and the sweetest little
-creetur’ in the world! Now, what did any of those old Greek fellows
-know about such a woman? And it’s a common enough type. For my part,
-I’m mortally afraid of the whole sex--afraid of the good because they
-are so good, and afraid of the bad because they are so deuced bad. And
-as for their conversation, it’s a revelation, from that damned Mrs.
-Shapleigh up.”
-
-Skelton could not keep from laughing at the mere mention of Mrs.
-Shapleigh’s name, although he was in no laughing mood.
-
-“Shoot me,” cried Bulstrode with energy, “if that woman isn’t a walking
-_non sequitur_!”
-
-To this Skelton only answered: “Every human being has a natural and
-unalienable right to make a fool of himself or herself. But Mrs.
-Shapleigh abuses the privilege.”
-
-“Drat her,” was Bulstrode’s only comment.
-
-“How do you account for Miss Shapleigh’s wit and charming _esprit_?”
-asked Skelton, with some appearance of interest.
-
-“Because she’s Mrs. Shapleigh’s daughter: everything goes according
-to the rule of contrary in this world. I like to hear that grey-eyed
-Sylvia talk; there’s nothing like it in the books, it is so sparkling,
-inconsequent, and delightful. And she’s got something mightily like
-an intellect. Mind, I don’t admit that women have minds in the sense
-of abstract intellect, but I say she has got such a vast fund of
-perceptions mixed up with her emotions, that it’s twice as useful as
-your mind, or mine either. Her education, too, is better than mine, for
-it’s all experience, while I am nothing but a sack full of other folks’
-ideas.”
-
-After this Bulstrode stopped, and presently slouched off to bed. He was
-surprised that Skelton had forgiven him so easily, or rather had been
-so indifferent to his offense, but Skelton had a good many reasons for
-not falling out with him then and there.
-
-After that things went on very quietly for a time. Skelton did not even
-mention the subject that he had talked to Lewis about the morning after
-the ball, and Lewis went about, serious and sad, with a weight upon his
-heart. The likeness between the two came out stronger every day. Just
-as Lewis suddenly seemed to become a man and his face lost its boyish
-character, so Skelton’s face grew younger and gentler by reason of the
-upspringing of a host of strange feelings. It seems as if the opening
-of his heart to Lewis had made a new man of him. He sometimes thought
-to himself: “What wonderful vitality have these old emotions, after
-all! It seems impossible either to starve them or strangle them.”
-
-Sylvia Shapleigh appeared to him more and more captivating, and he
-realised after a while that he was as much in love with her as he
-could be with any woman. But a great many things would have to be
-settled before he could speak to Sylvia. He reflected that no man could
-guarantee to himself one single day of life, and, on the whole, it was
-better to have matters arranged in his lifetime. Then it occurred
-to him for the first time that if he could satisfy the Blairs that
-Lewis put an embargo upon their suppositious claims, there would be no
-occasion for making it public. Of course, it would have to be known
-to a certain number of persons, but they were chiefly legal people in
-England, and England was in those days almost as far off as another
-planet. And it must come out at his death, but that might be many
-years off, and Lewis might have married into a good family, and the
-gossip might have become an old story, and everything much better than
-springing it suddenly on the community then. Skelton went quietly to
-work, though, and accumulated the proofs of Lewis’s parentage, and
-found them much more conclusive than Bulstrode had thought them to be.
-He was meanwhile gradually making up his mind to ask Sylvia Shapleigh
-to marry him. Of course he must tell her all about Lewis, but he
-thought it likely that she knew as much as he could tell her, and if
-she really cared for him she would be good to the boy for his sake--to
-say nothing of Lewis’s sake, for he was undoubtedly lovable. It was
-very unfortunate; he did not know of any man who had a complication so
-painful; but still there were ways out of it. One thing was certain:
-no one would ever trouble him with remarks on the subject, or Sylvia
-either, if they should be married. People might think as they pleased,
-but he and Sylvia and Lewis could afford to ignore gossip and idle
-tittle-tattle.
-
-Lewis, although obviously depressed, took a suddenly industrious turn
-about his lessons. He began to study so hard, that Bulstrode was amazed
-and delighted.
-
-“Why,” he cried one day, “you are learning so fast that you’ll soon be
-as big a knowledge box as the British Museum.”
-
-“I think I’d better work hard, sir, because some day I shall probably
-have to earn my living,” answered Lewis quite gravely.
-
-“Pooh!” said Bulstrode, “you’ll have the greatest fortune that ever
-was.”
-
-Lewis turned perfectly crimson, and said nothing. Presently Bulstrode
-continued:
-
-“It seems to me, youngster, that you have been going through with a
-change lately.”
-
-“I have, sir,” answered Lewis in a low voice. “Mr. Skelton tells me
-that if I will acknowledge that--that--I am not Thomas Pryor’s son he
-will give me a fortune.”
-
-“Showed you all the kingdoms of the earth to tempt you, eh?”
-
-“Yes, sir, something like it.”
-
-“And you don’t want ’em?”
-
-“Not at the price I have to pay for them, sir.”
-
-“But I don’t believe Skelton can help himself, or you either, from your
-having that fortune. I think he wants to marry Miss Sylvia Shapleigh;
-and if he dies, or marries, his wife’s money either goes to you or to
-the Blairs; and I believe the poor dead woman would turn over in her
-grave if she thought anybody that Skelton hates like the Blairs would
-get it.”
-
-“But wouldn’t she hate for me to get it?” asked Lewis.
-
-“Well”--here Bulstrode began to rub his shaggy head--“not so much as
-the Blairs. You see, you are innocent yourself; nobody would feel any
-grudge against you; it all happened before Skelton married her; and
-Mrs. Skelton was so desperately fond of Skelton, that she would be very
-likely to be tolerant towards any innocent creetur’ that he loved.
-Queer subjects women are.”
-
-“If Mr. Skelton thinks I am going to give up without a fight, he’s very
-much mistaken!” cried Lewis suddenly.
-
-Bulstrode clapped him on the back and roared out, “Good for you, boy!”
-
-Some days after that Skelton sent for Lewis into the library. Lewis
-went with a beating heart. There had not been the slightest change in
-their relations since that morning in the library, but it had been
-wholly Lewis’s own doing. He maintained a reserve towards Skelton
-that was unbroken. Much as he loved the boy, Skelton could not bring
-himself to become a supplicant, as it were, for his affections; and so,
-although each watched the other, and they lived under the same roof,
-there was a grim reserve between them.
-
-When he reached the library, Skelton had before him a sheet of paper
-with a translation on it.
-
-“Bulstrode tells me,” said Skelton, pointing to a chair for Lewis to
-sit down, “that you did this out of Horace without any assistance. It
-isn’t perfect, of course--nobody translates old Horace perfectly--but
-it is extraordinarily good for a fellow of your age. And Bulstrode also
-gives most gratifying reports of your progress in all your studies.”
-
-Lewis’s heart beat faster still. Here was a chance to let Skelton know
-that he had not in the least wavered from his determination not to
-take the money in exchange for his name.
-
-“I--I--feel that I ought to study very hard, so that I can--some
-day--when I’m a man--make my own living, sir,” he said, blushing very
-much.
-
-“Ah!” replied Skelton, with an air of calm inquiry.
-
-“Yes, sir,” responded Lewis, plucking up his courage a little.
-
-Skelton looked him squarely in the eyes, as he had done very often of
-late, and was met by a dauntless look. Ah, where was there another
-fifteen-year-old boy who showed such a nice sense of honour, such
-heroic firmness in withstanding temptation? He expressed something of
-this in his words, at which the boy’s face hardened, and his heart
-hardened too.
-
-“I only ask, sir,” he said, “that I shall be let alone until I am
-twenty-one. When I am a man I shall know how to stand upon my rights.”
-
-“I think, Lewis,” said Skelton calmly, “that your reason is already
-convinced. You no longer believe yourself to be the son of Thomas
-Pryor, yet you talk about making a fight for it.”
-
-Lewis made no reply. He was no match for Skelton, and he knew it; but
-his determination was perfectly unchanged.
-
-“Listen to me,” began Skelton after a moment, leaning forward in his
-chair; “you are rather an uncommon boy.” Skelton, as he said this,
-smiled slightly, remembering that Lewis could scarcely fail to be
-unlike most boys. “I shall talk to you as if you were a man, instead of
-a boy, and perhaps you will understand why it is that I intend to do
-you right in the face of the world.”
-
-“To do me wrong,” said Lewis under his breath.
-
-Skelton pretended not to hear. He then carefully and in detail went
-over the whole thing with Lewis, who happened to know all about it
-through Bulstrode. The only answer Skelton got out of the boy was a
-dogged
-
-“I don’t want it at the price I have to pay for it. You wouldn’t want
-to exchange your respectability for anything.”
-
-“But have I no claim upon you, Lewis?” asked Skelton. His tone was hard
-to resist. It conveyed an appeal as well as a right; but Lewis resisted.
-
-“I don’t know,” he said in a distressed voice; “all I know is that I
-believe that I am Lewis Pryor, and I want to stay Lewis Pryor; and
-if--if--you do as you say, you may make me a rich man some day, but you
-make me the inferior of everybody. I know it; I’ve talked it out with
-Mr. Bulstrode.”
-
-“And what did Bulstrode say?” asked Skelton, his face darkening. But
-Lewis was wary beyond his years.
-
-“I’d rather not tell, sir; Mr. Bulstrode wouldn’t like it.”
-
-“I’m sure he wouldn’t like it,” answered Skelton sardonically, “the
-ungrateful old good-for-nothing! But I can guess easily enough what he
-has been up to.”
-
-Lewis felt that he was playing a losing game, but he only repeated:
-
-“The Blairs will get that money.”
-
-Skelton had all along spoken in a quiet, conventional tone, but at
-this he uttered a slight exclamation, and ground his teeth with silent
-fury. The boy’s obstinacy was intolerable to a man accustomed to make
-his will the law. Of course, he could do as he pleased about it; he
-could prove the whole thing to-morrow morning, if he liked, but he did
-not want to be opposed by the person he wished to benefit; and besides,
-he loved the boy well, and contradiction from him was therefore doubly
-hard.
-
-Lewis got up to go out. As he passed, rather a grim smile came into
-Skelton’s face. He saw his own look of firm determination upon the
-boy’s thin-lipped, eloquent mouth, and in his dark eyes. Lewis was
-growing more like him every day. Poor little fool! Talk about proving
-himself to be the son of that lanky, loose-jointed Thomas Pryor! It was
-ridiculous.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIX.
-
-
-Skelton had cold fits and hot fits as regarded Sylvia. At first he
-considered his cold fit as his abnormal condition, and the hot fit as
-an agreeable form of insanity. But he soon changed his opinion. He was
-beginning, late in life, to live through what other men are generally
-done with by that time. In Sylvia’s society he felt always an exquisite
-sense of well-being that he could not remember ever to have felt before
-with any human being except in a certain way with Lewis. When the boy
-had been younger Skelton recalled, that to watch him at play, or at his
-work, had always given him strange delight--a delight unique of its
-kind, and more nearly resembling happiness than anything he had ever
-known. But looking back calmly upon his life, he could not remember
-that he had ever known apart from Sylvia and Lewis that joyous sense
-of existence which is happiness. He remembered that in his early days
-he had felt a sense of triumph when the public--his public--caught at
-the idea of his future greatness. He knew well enough a certain refined
-and elevated pleasure in purely intellectual pursuits. But happiness is
-the child of the affections, and Skelton’s affections had fared rather
-badly. He recollected his early passion for Elizabeth Armistead with
-hatred. She had given him fierce joys and sharp pain, but that was far
-removed from happiness. His marriage had been from a curious mixture of
-motives, and he dared not admit to himself how little love had had to
-do with it; he had felt tenderness and extreme gratitude to his wife,
-but happiness had still eluded him. Now, however, he realised with
-keen pleasure that, after all, he was not done with life and youth--he
-had not yet come down to the dregs and heel taps of existence. He
-had sounded all the depths and shoals of a life of pleasure and of a
-life of intellect, and he was tired of both. True it was, that books
-still had a fatal fascination for him; that passion for reading and
-for making his mind drunk at the fountain of other men’s knowledge was
-ineradicable. But he had at last come to crave something else. Like all
-men who lead a one-sided life with a two-sided nature, he was seized
-with a profound disgust, and would have welcomed almost any change.
-Never had he understood the futility of a normal human being trying
-to live on ideas alone until he returned to Deerchase. As soon as he
-had eliminated everything from his life except books and intellectual
-effort, he began to find books more of an anodyne and work more of a
-hopeless effort than ever. When he was quite ready for his life work,
-when he had prepared himself, his house, his tools, in perfection for
-that work, a deadly paralysis had seized upon him, a frightful fear
-of failure. Then, following this, he suddenly found an unsuspected
-source of pleasure--the society of a woman. He could have as much or as
-little of that society as he wanted, even if he married her, for it is
-the privilege of the rich to have privacy and independence in every
-relation of life. It was true he would have to give up much money,
-which most men are unequal to parting with, to marry her. But he would
-give it up to Lewis, a creature intensely loved. Still, it would be a
-curtailment of his power, for money is power.
-
-At first the consequences seemed enormous; but they assumed much
-smaller proportions as he investigated them. He would not be able to
-buy thousands of books, as he had done, but he suspected, with a kind
-of shame, that he had too many books already. He would no longer be
-able to leave orders in blank with the great collectors in London,
-and Paris, and Rome to buy him rare editions, but he remembered with
-disgust that these orders had been carried out rather with a view of
-getting his money than to increasing the value of his collection. He
-had caught two of his agents in the act of palming off spurious volumes
-upon him, and had informed them of his discovery and had given them no
-more orders. As for buying pictures and bric-a-brac, that taste was not
-then developed in this country. Hundreds of ways of spending money,
-well known in the latter half of the nineteenth century, were quite
-unknown in the first half. Skelton found that in giving up his wife’s
-fortune he was giving up much in the abstract and but little in the
-concrete. And then came his interview with Lewis.
-
-The boy’s unhappy face, though, haunted him. Skelton had not once seen
-him smile since that night of the ball. He went about solemnly, his
-black eyes, that were usually full of light, sombre and distressed,
-and Service was never allowed out of his sight. He kept closely to
-Deerchase, and did not even go to Belfield until Sylvia wrote him a
-note gently chiding him. As for Sylvia, whatever she felt for Skelton,
-she had adopted the general belief that he would never marry at all.
-She felt a kind of resentment towards him, for, after comparing him
-with the other men she knew, she acknowledged promptly to herself
-that she could never marry any of those other men. Skelton had done
-her that ill turn; he had shown her so conclusively the charm of a
-man with every advantage of birth, breeding, intellect, knowledge of
-the world, and, above all, his subtile personal charm, that other men
-wearied her. Even Blair, who found women usually responsive to him,
-discovered that Sylvia was rather bored with him. She had tasted of the
-tree of knowledge, and was neither better nor happier for it. She was
-acute enough to see that her society gave Skelton more pleasure than
-any other woman’s, but then that was easily understood. Provincials
-are generally uninterestingly alike. Sylvia Shapleigh happened to be a
-little different from the rest. In her own family she was singularly
-lonely. Her father was the conventional good father, and both of
-her parents were proud of her. But she was a being different from
-any in their experience. Old Tom Shapleigh boasted of her spirit,
-and said he believed Sylvia was waiting to marry the President of
-the United States; but he was vexed that she was getting out of her
-twenties so fast without making a good match, and every offer she had
-always provoked a quarrel between father and daughter. Mrs. Shapleigh
-considered that Sylvia’s obstinacy in that respect was expressly meant
-as a defiance of maternal authority, and continually reproached her
-that she would yet bring her mother’s grey hairs with sorrow to the
-grave because she wouldn’t accept any offer made to her.
-
-Lewis Pryor was not more lonely than Sylvia Shapleigh, although,
-womanlike, she showed more fortitude and was more uncomplaining about
-it. But on account of that solitariness common to both of them, the
-imaginative woman and the half-developed boy had a sympathy for each
-other--an odd, sweet community of thought. Sylvia had heard all the
-talk floating about the county regarding Lewis Pryor, and had observed
-the coldness with which the world, which smiled so benignly on Skelton,
-frowned on the innocent boy; but, more just as well as more generous
-than the sodden world, his misfortune was only another reason why she
-should be kind to him.
-
-The summer passed slowly to most of them: to Blair, impatiently
-awaiting news from England; to his wife, vexed with him for his action;
-to Sylvia, who began to feel a painful sense of disappointment and
-narrowness and emptiness in existence; to Lewis, prematurely burdened
-with the problems of life; to all, except Skelton. Indeed, time had a
-way of flying frightfully fast with him, and he barely recovered the
-shock and surprise of one birthday before another was precipitated on
-him. And yet he was going about that book as if the ages were his!
-He had quite given up his racing affairs to Miles Lightfoot, and was
-apparently devoting himself to some abstruse studies in his library. So
-he was--but Sylvia Shapleigh was the subject.
-
-Although a very arrogant and confident man, Skelton was too
-clear-headed not to consider the possibility that Sylvia might not
-marry him, but it was always difficult for him to comprehend that he
-could not have his own way about anything he desired.
-
-He meant, however, to be very prudent. He would bring all of his
-finesse and worldly wisdom to bear, and he would not be outwitted by
-any woman. So thought Samson of old.
-
-Skelton did not go to Belfield very often, but in one way and another
-he saw Sylvia pretty constantly. He never could quite make out the
-faint resentment in her manner to him. But the truth, from Sylvia’s
-point of view, was, that he had come into her life and disorganised it,
-and made her dissatisfied with what before had satisfied her, and had
-shown her other ideals and standards which were beyond her reach; and,
-on the whole, Sylvia reckoned Skelton among the enemies of her peace.
-
-In August, Mrs. Shapleigh usually made her hegira to the Springs. One
-of Sylvia’s crimes in her mother’s eyes was that she was not always
-madly anxious to be off on this annual jaunt. But this year nobody
-could complain that Sylvia was not ready enough to go. So eager was she
-for a change, that Mrs. Shapleigh declared Sylvia would go off without
-a rag to her back if it were not for a mother’s devotion. Lewis Pryor
-dreaded her going, and he seemed really the only person whom Sylvia
-regretted. But Skelton found himself secretly very much dissatisfied
-with the idea that Sylvia should go away.
-
-One hot August afternoon, after having seen the great Belfield
-carriage drive out of the lane with Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh, and seeing
-Sylvia’s white figure fluttering about on the river shore, Skelton
-concluded that he would walk across the bridge and call on Mr. and Mrs.
-Shapleigh, which would result, of course, in his seeing only Sylvia.
-
-The day had been sultry, and not a breath stirred the giant trees
-around Deerchase. There were masses of coppery clouds in the west, and,
-although the sun blazed redly, the river was dark. Skelton predicted a
-thunderstorm as he crossed the bridge.
-
-Down by the water was Sylvia, with a rustic hat tied under her chin.
-
-“I am going all over the place for the last time,” she said to Skelton
-when he came up. “Day after to-morrow we start--we can’t make the
-journey in less than eight days--and oh, I shall be so glad to be on
-the road!”
-
-It rather disconcerted Skelton that Sylvia, who seemed so different
-from most women, should be so anxious after what seemed to him a
-commonplace pleasure. He hated watering places himself.
-
-“It will be very gay, no doubt,” he answered. “But it is such an
-immense effort for so little!”
-
-“Yes,” agreed Sylvia, walking slowly along the edge of the river and
-looking absently down towards Lone Point; “but there is a dreadful
-stagnation here. I wake up every morning at the same moment--to see the
-same things--to meet the same people. Ah, how tired I am of it all!”
-
-This was a rare complaint for women to make in those days, when a taste
-for travelling was thought depraved. Skelton observed her closely, and
-saw signs of an inward restlessness.
-
-“And will you be satisfied at the Springs?” he asked, smiling.
-
-“Of course not,” answered Sylvia airily. “I shall be no better
-satisfied than at Belfield; but it will be a change. Ah, Mr. Skelton,
-you don’t know what it is to be caged!”
-
-Skelton thought he understood her.
-
-“Some day you will see the world,” he said, “and then you will lose all
-of your illusions. I am satisfied at Deerchase, because I know it is as
-good a spot as any in the world.”
-
-“Do you think I will ever see the world?” said Sylvia. “Well, I don’t
-think I will. I want it too much. We never get what we want very, very
-much.”
-
-“Yes, we do,” replied Skelton, looking skyward. “We want rain very,
-very much, and we will get it very soon.”
-
-“If you are afraid of being soaked,” said Sylvia, with a kind of soft
-insolence, “you had better go home.”
-
-Skelton perceived that she was trying to vex him. “No, I sha’n’t go
-home yet a while; and if a storm comes up, I shall stay with you, as I
-know your father and mother are away. I saw the carriage drive out of
-the lane before I started.”
-
-“Yet you asked very politely if papa and mamma were at home?”
-
-“Certainly I did. Politeness is a necessity when one is carrying out a
-deception.”
-
-Sylvia turned a rosy colour, more with anger than with pleasure.
-Skelton was amusing himself at her expense. Latterly he had fallen into
-a half-bantering love-making with her that was infuriating. Sylvia
-shut her lips, threw back her head, and unconsciously quickened her
-walk. Skelton, without making the slightest attempt at conversation,
-walked by her side. They were following the indentations of the river
-towards the bridge. The sky lowered, and presently a few large drops of
-rain fell. Sylvia started and turned a little pale. She was afraid of
-storms, and already the rumbling of thunder was heard.
-
-“I must fly home!” she cried. “Good-bye,” and gave him her hand.
-
-At that moment the air suddenly turned black, and there was a blinding
-flash of light, a sudden roar of thunder, and all at once a great
-golden willow not fifty yards from where they stood seemed to shrivel
-before their eyes as a bolt struck it. A fearful stillness hung over
-the land, although the thunder bellowed overhead. Sylvia trembled, and
-clung to Skelton’s sinewy brown hand.
-
-“Don’t go!” she said piteously.
-
-In another instant she felt herself rushed along towards the house. She
-was breathless, and the wind, which had suddenly risen, blew the brim
-of her large hat over her eyes, but just as the rain swept down in a
-torrent she found herself in the Belfield hall, panting and frightened,
-but safe.
-
-“Now,” said Skelton coldly and with malicious satisfaction, “good-bye.”
-
-“What do you mean?” cried Sylvia, aghast. “In this rain?”
-
-“The rain is nothing,” replied Skelton, buttoning up his coat. He was
-vexed with her, and was sincere in meaning to go home.
-
-“But--but--you _mustn’t_ go,” said Sylvia, looking at him with
-terrified eyes.
-
-“Are you afraid to be alone? I will call the servants for you.”
-
-“Yes, I am afraid,” cried Sylvia desperately; “I am afraid for you.”
-She paused suddenly. In her nervousness and tremor and agitation she
-scarcely knew what she was saying; the roar of the rattling thunder
-almost drowned her voice; it died in her throat, and her heart
-fluttered wildly as Skelton suddenly seized her hand.
-
-“Are you afraid for me, dear Sylvia?” he asked.
-
-Something compelling in Skelton’s gaze forced Sylvia to raise her eyes
-to his, which were blacker, more lustrous, than she had ever seen them.
-She made no answer, but her own eyes shone with a deep, green light
-that was enchanting. All at once the whole world outside of Skelton
-seemed to slip out of sight. But Skelton felt the most delicious ease
-and sense of reality. That one glance revealed her whole soul to him.
-Here was one creature who could love him; here was that soft, human
-fondness of which he had known but little in his life; and he knew
-well enough that way lay happiness. He cast prudence and forethought
-and finesse to the winds. The inevitable hour had come to him as to
-other men. He drew her close to him, and took the great wet hat off her
-head and kissed her passionately a dozen times, saying some incoherent
-words, which nevertheless both he and Sylvia understood well enough.
-All at once an ineffable tenderness had possessed him; life took on
-another hue. The beauty of the present hour might be fleeting, but at
-least it was well to have known it even for a moment.
-
-The lightning continued to flash constantly in the large, dark hall,
-and the reverberation of the thunder was deafening, but it no longer
-had the power to alarm Sylvia; it is true it excited her and increased
-the tremor of her nerves, and made her quite unconsciously cling
-closely to Skelton, but it seemed to her as if they were together under
-the most beautiful sky and in the serenest air.
-
-Presently thought returned to Skelton. Sylvia was now in the mood in
-which she could refuse him nothing; she had acknowledged that she loved
-him; now was the time to speak for Lewis, for the one passion had by no
-means swallowed up the other.
-
-“Sylvia,” said he in his most eloquent tones, and looking at her with
-his soul in his eyes, “could you forgive much in the past life of the
-man you loved? Think well before you answer, because some women who
-love much cannot forgive anything.”
-
-Sylvia turned very pale; she knew well enough what he meant; she knew
-he was making a plea for Lewis Pryor.
-
-“Yes,” she said, after a tremulous pause, “I could forgive much in the
-past. What is past is no injury to me; but I don’t think I could be
-forgiving for any injury to _me_.”
-
-She had withdrawn a little from him, and her last words were spoken
-quite firmly and clearly and with unflinching eyes. Sylvia had a spirit
-of her own, and that was a time for plain speaking. She did not lose
-in Skelton’s esteem by her boldness.
-
-“Then we are agreed,” answered Skelton with equal boldness; “for I
-shall have no forgiveness to ask in the future. I shall have to ask
-forgiveness for something in the past--something I cannot tell you now.
-I will write it to you. But I will say this: I believe you to be the
-most magnanimous woman in the world, and for that, partly, I love you.”
-
-There is a common delusion that all men make love alike. Never was
-there a greater mistake. There is no one particular in which a man
-of sense is more strongly differentiated from a fool than in his
-love-making. Skelton had the most exquisite tact in the world. He had
-to admit to his own wrongdoing, but he did it so adroitly that he
-easily won forgiveness. He had to make terms for Lewis, and he had to
-tell Sylvia that he could not make her a very rich woman; but he made
-the one appear the spontaneous act of Sylvia’s generosity, and the
-other was the most powerful proof of his affection for her. So can a
-man of brains wrest disadvantage to his advantage.
-
-Sylvia heard him through, making occasionally little faint stands
-against him that never amounted to anything. There was already treason
-in the citadel, and all she wanted was a chance to surrender. Skelton
-knew all the transformations of the cunning passion called love, and
-Sylvia’s flutterings were those of a bird in the snare of the fowler.
-
-An hour had passed since the storm had risen, and it was now dying away
-as rapidly as it had come up. Sylvia slipped from Skelton and went and
-stood by a window at the farther end of the hall. The exaltation was
-too keen; she craved a moment’s respite from the torrent of her own
-happiness. When Skelton joined her and clasped her hand, both of them
-were calmer. They experienced the serener joy of thinking and talking
-over their happiness, instead of being engulfed in the tempest of
-feeling.
-
-“But do you know, dear Sylvia,” said Skelton, after a while, “that in
-marrying me you will not be marrying the richest man in Virginia?”
-
-“I shall be marrying the finest man in Virginia, though,” answered
-Sylvia, with a pretty air of haughty confidence.
-
-“But still we sha’n’t starve. We shall have Deerchase.”
-
-“I always liked Deerchase better than any place in the world.”
-
-“And you will have a middle-aged husband.”
-
-“I like middle age.”
-
-“Who has a bad habit of reading more hours than he ought to.”
-
-“Then I shall be rid of him much of the time. However, Lewis and I will
-manage to get on very well without you.”
-
-Skelton at that clasped her in his arms with real rapture. It was
-the one thing necessary to his happiness--the one condition he would
-exact of any woman--that Lewis should have what Skelton considered his
-rights. Triumph filled his heart. With that charming, spirited woman
-to help him, the little world around them would be forced to be on
-its good behaviour to Lewis. Sylvia, who was the most acute of women,
-saw in an instant that in this boy she had the most powerful hold on
-Skelton. Justice, and generosity, and inclination all urged her to be
-kind to the boy; but love, which is stronger than all, showed her that
-therein lay the secret of enormous power over Skelton.
-
-But after a moment Sylvia said something which suddenly filled
-Skelton’s soul with melancholy:
-
-“Some day--when the great book is written--you will be the most famous
-man in the country, and I shall be the proudest woman,” she said with a
-little vain, proud air.
-
-The light died out of Skelton’s eyes, and he could hardly resist a
-movement of impatience. Everywhere, even in his most sacred love, he
-was pursued by this phantom of what he was to do.
-
-Sylvia presently sat down, and Skelton, drawing his chair near her,
-hung over her fondly. He knew perfectly well how to make her happy. He
-expressed in a hundred delicate ways the tenderness he felt for her;
-while Sylvia--proud Sylvia--was so meek and sweet that he scarcely knew
-her; so forgiving, so trustful. After all, thought Skelton, there was a
-philosophy better than that to be found in the books.
-
-The storm was now over, and suddenly a mocking-bird outside the window
-burst into a heavenly song. Skelton went to the wide hall doors and
-threw them open. The sinking sun was shining upon a new heaven and a
-new earth. The trees, the grass, the shrubbery were diamonded with
-drops and sparkling brilliantly; the river ran joyously; the damp,
-sweet-scented air had a delicious freshness; all Nature was refreshed
-and glad. Skelton felt that it was like his own life--a sunset calm
-after a storm. He felt not only a happier man than he had been for many
-years, but a better man.
-
-Half an hour after, when Skelton and Sylvia were sitting together
-in the cool, dark drawing-room, the door suddenly opened, and Mrs.
-Shapleigh sailed in, followed by old Tom. The sight that met their eyes
-might well paralyse them--Skelton, with his arm on Sylvia’s chair, his
-dark head almost resting on her bright hair; her hand was raised to his
-lips. Being a self-possessed lover, he did not commit the _gaucherie_
-of dropping her hand, but held on to it firmly, saying coolly:
-
-“Fairly caught, we are, Sylvia.”
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh uttered a faint shriek, while old Tom raised his
-bristling eyebrows up to the fringe of grey hair over his forehead.
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh sank down, overcome by astonishment. Old Tom walked up
-to Skelton, and said, with a broad grin:
-
-“So you have bamboozled my girl?”
-
-“Completely,” answered Skelton.
-
-Sylvia at that got up and scurried out of the room, with Mrs. Shapleigh
-after her.
-
-Mr. Shapleigh and his whilom ward faced each other.
-
-“The game’s up,” was old Tom’s remark.
-
-“Apparently,” answered Skelton, smiling; “and, as the consent of the
-father is usually asked, I am quite willing to ask it now.”
-
-“I don’t know that it matters much in any case--least of all in
-this--because my daughter Sylvia has a spirit that I have never seen
-equalled in man or woman. I have sometimes seen horses who had it.
-That’s your prospect, Skelton.”
-
-“I’ll risk it gladly,” answered Skelton, who knew well how to play the
-dauntless lover.
-
-“And she has given in to you--the only creature, by Jove! she ever
-_did_ give in to. But, Skelton, there’s one thing--”
-
-Skelton knew exactly what was coming.
-
-“There is that boy, Lewis Pryor.”
-
-“Miss Shapleigh and I have agreed upon that,” replied Skelton in a
-tone which put a stop to any further discussion. “If she is satisfied,
-nobody else can complain.”
-
-“Not even her parents?”
-
-“See here, Mr. Shapleigh, we know each other too well to beat about the
-bush. You know your daughter will marry me if she says she will. You
-haven’t just known her yesterday.”
-
-“She will, by the powers of heaven!” burst out Mr. Shapleigh; “and so,
-I suppose, as you say, it is hardly worth while to talk about it. But,
-for the sake of the thing, here’s my hand and my consent with it.”
-
-“Thank you,” answered Skelton, with grim politeness, and taking his hat
-at the same time.
-
-He went back to Deerchase in a sort of exaltation not altogether
-free from melancholy. He had a feeling that too much of his life was
-gone--that, like the day’s sun, which had shone so brilliantly before
-its setting, it was a dying glory. Things were becoming too pleasant
-to him. The giving up of so much money with so little reluctance
-seemed too easy to be normal, yet the fact that this charming Sylvia
-had taken him with such a diminished fortune contained the most
-intoxicating and subtile flattery. There had been something of this in
-his first marriage; but although he felt the extreme of tenderness,
-gratitude, and respect for his first wife, it had been more a marriage
-of gentle affection than profound passion. Skelton dimly realised what
-Bulstrode brutally proclaimed--that if somebody had not violently
-opposed that marriage it might never have taken place. But Sylvia
-Shapleigh had powerfully attracted him from the first. Skelton had a
-vein of fatalism about him. Like the old Greeks, he expected to pay a
-price for everything, and it did not surprise him that in the natural
-course of events he had to pay a great price for his Sylvia.
-
-It was quite dusk when he stood on the bridge and looked first towards
-Belfield and then towards Deerchase. The twilight had fallen, and there
-were yellow lights about. Out in the river a vessel lay with a lantern
-at her masthead, that glimmered fitfully, showing the dusky outline of
-her hull against the shadowy mass of shore and sky. Afar off, at the
-negro quarters, a circle of dark figures sat around an outdoor fire,
-and a song faintly echoed from them. Skelton tried to distinguish
-Sylvia’s window from the dark pile of the Belfield house, but could
-not, and smiled at himself for his folly, and was glad to know such
-folly. He was no mean philosopher in the actual experiences of life.
-
-“Perhaps,” he said, “now that I shall stop buying books by the
-thousand, I shall get something done in the way of work; and having
-assumed duties and claims, I shall not have all my time to myself, and
-so may be spurred to use it more successfully than I do now--for so
-runs life.”
-
-Neither Lewis nor Bulstrode suspected that anything unusual had
-happened to Skelton that night. Skelton longed to call Lewis to him and
-to tell him that he had a friend--that between Sylvia and himself he
-would have two as stout defenders as could be found; but he refrained
-for the moment. After dinner, though, when Skelton went out for his
-after-dinner smoke on the long, leafy, stone porch covered with
-climbing tea roses that were in all their mid-summer glory, Lewis came
-too. This was very rare. But to-night he came out and sat looking at
-the river, and fondling his dog, as if merely for the pleasure of being
-there. He looked less sad, less shy than usual. The truth was, he was
-young and full of life, and he could not always be gloomy. Skelton
-talked to him a little, and the two sat together in the sweet, odorous
-night, until it was long past Lewis’s bedtime. Presently, though, he
-began to yawn, and got up to go to bed; and when he said “Good-night,”
-he went up to Skelton and touched his hand softly.
-
-That touch went to Skelton’s heart, as a baby’s fingers go to the heart
-of the mother; he felt the deep, unmixed delight he had felt when
-Sylvia’s radiant, adoring eyes had rested on his; it was one of those
-delicious moments of which there are too few in every life. Yes, Lewis
-was certainly beginning to love him.
-
-“Good-night, my boy,” said Skelton, laying his hand fondly on Lewis’s
-shoulder.
-
-Skelton was so profoundly happy as he walked up and down the long
-porch, his fine, expressive face so changed and softened, his black
-eyes luminous in the dark, that he asked himself if, after all, Fate
-would not demand something more than mere money in payment for so much
-that was sweet.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XX.
-
-
-Next morning early, while Sylvia was yet dreaming, a tap came at her
-door, and a great basket of roses and a letter from Skelton were given
-to her. The letter told her, most delicately and artfully, what he
-had intimated the night before. He made a touching appeal for Lewis,
-and he even told her in detail about the disposition of the property
-without offending her--for nothing so vitiates sentiment as the talk
-of money. But there was nothing to vitiate it in the willingness, and
-even eagerness, that Skelton expressed to give up a fortune for her.
-Possibly he had not been quite so ready to do it as he professed; but
-he knew how to make a virtue of a necessity, and it lost nothing in his
-gallant way of putting it. Sylvia was quite sharp enough to see how
-ably he had managed awkward facts, and loved him none the less for it,
-and admired him considerably more. His money and his past were nothing
-to her. All that any human being can claim of another is the present
-and the future.
-
-There had been a tremendous commotion at Belfield after Skelton had
-left the evening before, but Sylvia scarcely remembered a word of it
-next morning. The only fact her mind dwelt on was that Skelton loved
-her. One thing, though, Mrs. Shapleigh had promptly resolved before
-she had closed her eyes the night before, which was, that the trip to
-the Springs must be given up. Sylvia had landed the leviathan of the
-matrimonial pool, and Mrs. Shapleigh could not bear to tear herself
-away from the county in the first flush of her triumph. It is true
-it was not the custom in those days and in that region to announce
-engagements, but, nevertheless, Mrs. Shapleigh had no doubt it would
-get out, and had convincing reasons for so believing. Old Tom was far
-from objecting to the abandonment of the trip to the Springs. He was
-not particularly anxious to go himself, and it cost a pretty penny to
-transport Mrs. Shapleigh and Sylvia and the maid, and the coachman
-and two horses, nearly four hundred miles from the seaboard to the
-Alleghany Mountains, and it was destructive to the family coach and
-usually foundered the horses.
-
-When Sylvia was greeted at breakfast with the announcement that the
-trip to the Springs was off, naturally it did not grieve her in the
-least.
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh--good soul!--started upon a round of visits that very
-morning to give a number of extraordinary and purposeless reasons why
-the trip was abandoned, and everywhere she went she let the cat out of
-the bag, to old Tom’s infinite diversion, who went along. Newington was
-the last place they went to. Blair met them at the door with his usual
-cordiality, and squeezed Mrs. Shapleigh’s hand and ogled her as if she
-had been twenty-five instead of fifty--to Mrs. Shapleigh’s obvious
-delight, although she archly reproved him.
-
-The place, and the master and the mistress of it, looked more
-prosperous than for many years past; but close observers might see that
-Blair and his wife were not quite what they had once been; there was a
-little rift in the lute. Both of them, however, were genuinely glad to
-see the Shapleighs, who were among the best of friends and neighbours.
-Mrs. Blair asked after Sylvia, and then the murder was out. Mrs.
-Shapleigh began:
-
-“Sitting at home in the drawing-room, mooning with Richard Skelton.
-He was over there all yesterday during the storm, and one would think
-they had said everything on earth they could think of to each other,
-but evidently they haven’t. I can’t imagine what they find to talk
-about, for Richard Skelton never knows any news.--What ails you, Mr.
-Shapleigh?”
-
-“Nothing at all,” answered old Tom, grinning delightedly, “except that
-I’d like to see Richard Skelton’s countenance if he could hear you this
-minute.”
-
-“Well, I’m sure Mr. Skelton is quite welcome to hear anything I have to
-say. I say he never knows any news--and so he does not, Mr. Shapleigh.
-Mr. Skelton may be able to write a great philosophical work that will
-lose his own soul, I haven’t the slightest doubt, but as for knowing
-what’s going on in the county--why, he knows no more than my shoe. But
-Sylvia thinks he’s delightful, news or no news.”
-
-“There you go,” apostrophised Mr. Shapleigh, taking out his big
-snuff-box and indulging himself in a huge pinch. Blair usually would
-have been highly amused at Mrs. Shapleigh, and would have wickedly
-kept her upon the ticklish subject. Instead, however, a strange,
-intense look flashed into his countenance as he quietly turned his
-eyes full on his wife’s face. Elizabeth grew pale. If Skelton was to
-be married to Sylvia Shapleigh--and there had been much talk about it
-lately--the crisis was at hand.
-
-Old Tom knew there was a mystery about the disposition of the main
-part of Skelton’s money in the event of his death or marriage, and
-thought it not unlikely that the Blairs would have an interest in it.
-So, as they sat there, simple country gentry as they were, leading the
-quietest provincial lives, and talking about their every-day affairs,
-there was that mixture of tragedy that is seldom absent from the comedy
-of life. Mrs. Shapleigh went into another long-winded explanation of
-why they had determined at the last minute to give up the trip to the
-Springs. At every reason she gave Mr. Shapleigh grinned more and more
-incredulously; but, when she got up to go, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Blair
-was in the slightest doubt as to the real reason.
-
-Blair put Mrs. Shapleigh into the carriage, gave old Tom an arm, and
-came back in the house to his wife.
-
-Elizabeth saw in a moment that a subtile change had come over him.
-Since he had given up the race course and had devoted himself to the
-plantation he had looked a different man. An expression of peace had
-come into his ruddy, mobile face; he was no longer hunted and driven
-by creditors of the worst kind; he did not live, as he once had, on
-the frightful edge of expecting a horse’s legs to give out, or his
-wind, or something equally important. It is true that he was haunted
-by the possible fortune, but it did not keep him from attending to
-his legitimate business, as horse racing had done. Now, however, his
-face was full of lines; some fierce, sensual self seemed to have come
-uppermost and to have altogether changed him. Elizabeth remembered
-about that black horse, and she began to think how long would Blair
-be able to keep off the turf with money in his pockets. And if he
-should get so much money as the Skelton fortune would be, Mrs. Blair’s
-feminine good sense told her unerringly that it would not be good for
-Blair.
-
-“Well,” he said, standing up before her in the cool drawing-room,
-darkened at midday from the August sun, “Skelton is going to be married
-to Sylvia Shapleigh. There is no earthly doubt about it.”
-
-Mrs. Blair quite agreed with him, but her face did not wear the look of
-uneasy triumph that glowed darkly upon her husband’s.
-
-“I have not heard from England yet, but I feel perfectly certain that
-the day he is married his wife’s fortune will be handed over to his
-heirs.”
-
-“Lewis Pryor is his heir,” answered Mrs. Blair.
-
-“How do you know it?” cried Blair. “Did not Bulstrode tell you that he
-thought it would be very hard for Skelton to prove it?”
-
-“But Mr. Bulstrode is not a man of very good judgment about those
-things. He felt sorry for me the night he told me. He was angry with
-Mr. Skelton; he says he thinks Lewis will be better off without the
-money than with it; and so, putting all those things together, he
-concluded that we would get it. But I know Richard Skelton well, and
-I know that he would not accept of his own happiness at the price of
-enriching us; and he adores that boy. You are deceiving yourself if you
-think one stiver of it will ever be ours.”
-
-Blair looked at his wife with deep displeasure in his face.
-
-“I don’t believe you want that money, and I know very well the reason
-why. You are afraid of money for me.”
-
-Mrs. Blair did not deny it, but sat, in pale distress, looking into
-her husband’s face. They loved each other well, in spite of that
-estrangement, and Blair got up and went to her and took her hand.
-
-“Elizabeth, I swear to you, all the animosity I feel towards Skelton
-arose first through the love I had for you. Had he not interfered with
-me when you and I were first lovers, Skelton and I should have been
-jolly good fellows together; but I’ve got into the habit of hating him,
-my dear, for your sake, and it’s not easy to leave off.”
-
-This old, old flattery never failed with Elizabeth, nor did it fail now.
-
-The whole county was agog in a week over Skelton’s affairs. The
-disposition of his fortune became more and more puzzling and
-interesting when it was perfectly well understood that the time for
-the solution of the mystery was near at hand. But Skelton himself and
-Sylvia Shapleigh knew, or thought they knew, just what would happen
-about it.
-
-Skelton, who was a model lover, pressed for an early date for the
-marriage to come off, and the late autumn was named. This gave him
-time to work on Lewis. He took the boy into the library one day and
-told him the whole story of the coming marriage, laying especial stress
-on the fact that Deerchase would still be his home and Sylvia his
-friend. The great news pleased the boy, and Skelton fondly hoped that
-it had reconciled him; but before the interview was out Skelton saw
-it had not. Only, instead of being obstinate and stiff-necked, Lewis
-begged, with tears in his eyes, that Skelton would not make it public.
-
-“I need not, unless the Blairs put in their claim. The whole thing is
-in Bulstrode’s hands,” said Skelton with his unbroken forbearance.
-
-But Lewis, on leaving the room, reiterated that he would never admit
-that he was not Lewis Pryor as long as he had a fighting chance. And,
-as on every occasion that it had been spoken of, Skelton gloried in the
-boy’s spirit with a melancholy joy. Something else besides pride in
-Lewis and affection for Sylvia made Skelton happy then. His mind seemed
-to awaken from its torpor, induced by excess of reading. All at once he
-felt the creative power rise within him like sap in a tree. The very
-night after he had pledged himself to Sylvia he went to the library
-to read, and suddenly found himself writing. The pen, which had been
-so hateful to him, became quickly natural to his hand. He cast aside
-his great volumes of notes, at which he had been used to gaze with a
-furious sense of being helpless and over-weighted, and wrote as readily
-and as rapidly as in the old days when he had written Voices of the
-People. Of course, it was not done in the same spirit; he realised he
-was making only the first rough draft of a work that would still take
-him years to bring into shape; but it was a beginning, and he had been
-fifteen years trying to make that beginning. A deep sense of happiness
-possessed him. At last, at last he had the thing which had eluded him.
-All at once good gifts were showered upon him. He felt a profound
-gratitude to Sylvia, for her touch that waked his heart seemed to wake
-his intellect too. The lotus eater suddenly cast aside the lotus and
-became a man.
-
-Every day Sylvia claimed a part of his day, but the remaining hours
-were worth months to him in that recent time when he was nothing better
-than an intellectual dram drinker. Bulstrode saw it, and said to him:
-
-“If you live long enough, you’ll write that book.”
-
-If he lived long enough! But why should he not live?
-
-That night, sitting alone in the library, working eagerly and
-effectively at that great preliminary plan, he remembered Bulstrode’s
-remark, and went and looked at himself in a small mirror in a corner
-to examine the signs of age upon him. Yes, the lines were there. But
-then the ever-sweet consciousness came to him that Sylvia did not
-think him old; that Sylvia would marry him to-morrow and go to live
-in the overseer’s house if he asked her. It came with a sweetness of
-consolation to him. He was at the very point where the old age of youth
-had not yet merged into the youth of old age; forty was a good deal
-older in 1820 than in 19--.
-
-There was one person, though, who thought forty was very old--for a
-man, although fifty was comparatively young for a woman--and that was
-Mrs. Shapleigh. That excellent woman was in mortal terror of her future
-son-in-law, but she revenged herself by great freedom in her remarks
-about him behind his back, as far as she dared, to Sylvia.
-
-Sylvia was indubitably a perfect fool about Skelton, as her mother
-reminded her a dozen times a day. When Sylvia would cunningly place
-herself at a window which looked across the fields to Deerchase, Mrs.
-Shapleigh would remark fretfully:
-
-“Sylvia, I declare you behave like a lunatic about Richard Skelton. I’m
-sure I was as much in love with your father as any well brought up girl
-might be, but I assure you it never cost me a wink of sleep.”
-
-“Very probably, mamma.”
-
-“And I was so afraid some one would know it, that I never breathed a
-word of our engagement to a soul. It’s true, some people suspected
-it after we went to a party at Newington and danced ten quadrilles
-together, one after the other, but I denied we were engaged up to two
-weeks before the wedding.”
-
-“Did you say ten quadrilles, mamma?”
-
-“Yes, ten.”
-
-“I’m sure Mr. Skelton and I will never dance ten quadrilles in one
-evening with each other.”
-
-“And your father was a much younger and handsomer man than Richard
-Skelton, who has crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes.”
-
-“I like crow’s-feet. They impart an air of thoughtful distinction to a
-man.”
-
-“And Mr. Skelton has a bald place as big as a dollar on the top of his
-head. Does that add an air of thoughtful distinction, too?”
-
-“Of course it does. There is something captivating in Mr. Skelton’s
-baldness; it is unique, like himself. It makes me more and more
-delighted at the idea that I am going to be married to him.”
-
-“Sylvia!” shrieked Mrs. Shapleigh, “do you dare to be so bold and
-forward as to say that you _want_ to marry Mr. Skelton?”
-
-“Yes, indeed, mamma--dreadfully.”
-
-Mrs. Shapleigh raised her hands and let them fall in her lap in despair.
-
-“For a girl to acknowledge such a thing! Now, if you wanted to be
-mistress of Deerchase, there’d be no harm in it; but to want to marry
-a man because you are in love with him! Dear, dear, dear! what is the
-world coming to?”
-
-Sylvia laughed with shameless merriment at this, and just then the door
-opened and old Tom came in.
-
-“Mr. Shapleigh,” began Mrs. Shapleigh in a complaining voice, “Sylvia’s
-not at all like me.”
-
-“Not a bit,” cheerfully assented old Tom.
-
-“She isn’t ashamed to say that she is in love with Richard Skelton, and
-wants to marry him. Nobody ever heard me say, Mr. Shapleigh, that I was
-in love with you, or wanted to marry you.”
-
-“No, indeed, madam. It was not worth while. You hung upon me like ivy
-on a brick wall.”
-
-“La, Mr. Shapleigh, how you talk!”
-
-“And I’m sure, my love, if anybody doubts my devotion to you during
-your lifetime, they’d never doubt it after you’re dead. I’ll engage to
-wear more crape and weepers than any ten widowers in the county.”
-
-This always shut Mrs. Shapleigh up. Sylvia gave her father a reproving
-look, but she was too much used to this kind of thing to take it
-seriously. Old Tom, though, indulged in his sly rallying too.
-
-“Well, my girl, a nice establishment you’ll have at Deerchase. I swear,
-I’d throw Bulstrode and Bob Skinny in the river, both of ’em, and let
-the fishes eat ’em. However, if you can stand Skelton for a husband,
-you can stand anything.”
-
-“Only give me a chance to stand Mr. Skelton, papa,” answered Sylvia
-demurely.
-
-“If the house were to catch afire, I wonder which Skelton would think
-of first--you or his books?”
-
-“The books, of course,” responded Sylvia, with easy sarcasm. “Wives
-come cheaper than books.”
-
-“I’d like to see Richard Skelton’s face the first time you cross him.”
-
-“You would see a very interesting face, papa--not very young, perhaps,
-but one that age cannot wither nor custom stale.”
-
-“Sylvia, my child, you are a fool!”
-
-“Only about Mr. Skelton, papa.”
-
-“Lord, Lord, what are we coming to!”
-
-“I know what _I’m_ coming to, papa. I am coming to be the wife of the
-finest man in the world, and the kindness and condescension of Mr.
-Skelton in wanting to marry me I never can be sufficiently grateful
-for--” At which, in the midst of a shriek of protest from Mrs.
-Shapleigh, Sylvia ran out of the room.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXI.
-
-
-As the time went by, with this new-found happiness and energy Skelton
-began every day to take more optimistic views of the future. If only
-the Blairs would keep quiet, the story about Lewis might remain unknown
-to the world at large indefinitely; and how excellent would this be for
-all--for the boy, for Sylvia, and for Skelton himself.
-
-There was, of course, one way of inducing Blair to say nothing and to
-make no attempts to prove what he considered his rights, and that was
-to offer him a sum of money in hand for his shadowy prospects in the
-future. At first, this plan was intolerably distasteful to Skelton;
-he only thought of it to dismiss it. But however he might dismiss
-it, still it returned. It is true it would give aid and comfort to
-his enemy, but it would also give peace and pleasure to the only two
-persons on earth whom he loved; for he was certain that, however
-Sylvia might be willing to brave talk for his sake, it would be an
-immeasurable relief to her to know that there would be no talk. Skelton
-also knew perfectly well that the Blairs stood no show whatever; for,
-even if Lewis should die, the Blairs could not inherit from him,
-because in the eyes of the law he was no relation to them, and it
-had pleased Skelton to think how completely he could checkmate Blair
-at every turn. But once the plan had entered his mind, his relentless
-and logical good sense forced him to consider it. He thought so much
-more clearly and rapidly and conclusively than the ordinary man that
-in a very little time his mind had made itself up. He did not all at
-once love Blair, but he saw that, in order to effect a great gain for
-the only two beings he loved in the world, he must agree to benefit
-his enemy; and so, under new and better influences, he brought himself
-to yield. As Bulstrode was Lewis’s guardian, of course Skelton could
-arrange with him as he chose.
-
-When his determination was finally fixed, he told Bulstrode, who said:
-
-“Humph! Best thing you could do. Perhaps the story about Lewis may
-never be positively known. _I_ don’t want to publish it, and he
-doesn’t, and you don’t; so just get the Blairs to hold their tongues,
-and it need not be known any farther than it is now, for God knows how
-long--perhaps not until you and I both are dust. Dear, sweet Mrs. Blair
-can hold her tongue, I warrant, if any of the sex can.”
-
-Bulstrode, fearing that, after all, the Blairs stood no chance, was
-glad for his dear Mrs. Blair to get enough to put her beyond the reach
-of poverty.
-
-Skelton felt compelled to mention it to Sylvia. Her relief at the
-thought that the story need not be published broadcast was so intense
-that Skelton saw that she had suffered much from the apprehension
-of it. As she had said not one word about it, he was touched at her
-reticence and self-sacrifice. He smiled at the thought that he was
-being influenced by a woman and a boy, and the trio was completed
-when the parson finished the job. Conyers coming down to Deerchase on
-a visit about that time, Skelton, very unexpectedly to the clergyman,
-talked the subject over with him on ethical grounds. Naturally, Conyers
-endorsed the idea that Skelton’s money could not be put to a better
-use than to helping Mrs. Blair and her children; and so, by the three
-influences that Skelton was supposed to be least governed, he made
-up his mind to do that which a year before he would have scoffed
-at. Conyers’s ideas on matters of right and wrong were so clear and
-logical, he was so little befogged by interest and prejudice, that
-Skelton could not but respect his opinion. True, his mind was made
-up when he talked with Conyers about the matter; but the clergyman’s
-clearness of belief that the thing was right nullified some of the old
-restless hatred of Blair.
-
-“Of course, we shall hate each other as long as we live,” said
-Skelton, in his cynically good-natured way, when talking with Conyers
-about Blair. “But, however Blair may congratulate himself on getting
-something for nothing--for that is what it is--I shall get a great deal
-more. I shall keep people from knowing my private affairs for at least
-several years to come, and that is worth a fortune to any man.”
-
-Skelton acted promptly on his decision. He wrote Blair briefly and
-clearly how things stood, but that, if he would refrain from making any
-attempt to prove his supposed claims to the property upon Skelton’s
-approaching marriage, a modest sum in ready money would be forthcoming.
-He offered Blair every facility for finding out the actual state of
-the case, and invited him to come over to Deerchase and consult about
-it.
-
-Blair told his wife, who, womanlike, advised him to take the bird in
-the hand.
-
-But during the discussion in the Deerchase library one mild September
-morning, between the two men, the whole thing liked to have fallen
-through. Blair saw so conclusively he had no show that he perceived he
-was accepting hush money. This his pride could by no means admit, and
-he professed not to consider Skelton’s proofs so positive as Skelton
-thought them. This angered Skelton. He saw in a moment where the shoe
-pinched. The sum that Skelton offered him was by no means commensurate
-with the interests he was giving up, if he had any interests at all;
-but still it would put him on his feet; it would make him solvent; he
-would once more be a free man. But Blair would not acknowledge this;
-he professed to be quite indifferent to it, and, as men will do under
-such circumstances, declared he preferred that the law should settle
-it. It was as much as Skelton could do to refrain from calling him a
-fool. However, Blair was no fool; he was only an intensely human man,
-who loved and hated as most men do, and who wanted to satisfy his
-creditors, but who did not like the idea of his enemy knowing that
-he was taking money for holding his tongue because his rights in the
-matter had proved to be a chimera. It looked at one time as if the
-final word would be a disagreement. Skelton sat on one side of the
-table, with a contemptuous half-smile on his countenance, drawing
-pen-and-ink sketches upon scraps of paper. Blair sat on the other
-side, his face as black as midnight. But in the end Skelton’s strong
-determination prevailed on Blair’s more violent but less certain will
-power; coolness prevailed over hot-headedness, reason over unreason. At
-the very last, when Blair had yielded and agreed to take some thousands
-of dollars, a strange thing happened to Skelton. A perfectly sudden,
-overpowering, and phenomenal generosity seized upon him. All at once he
-realised how hard he had been upon Blair’s susceptibilities; Blair was
-a gentleman, and high-strung for all his faults; it was humiliating to
-him to want the money so badly that he was obliged to take it; he would
-have liked to have flung it in Skelton’s face; and, thinking this over
-rapidly, without a word Skelton sat down, pulled the completed draft of
-the agreement toward him, and doubled the first figure of the sum named.
-
-Blair could hardly believe his eyes. He looked at Skelton for fully
-five minutes, while the thing was slowly impressing itself upon
-his mind. His face flushed scarlet; his lips worked; he was deeply
-agitated. Skelton walked to the window and looked out. His eyes sought
-the river, and fell upon a boat with its one white sail gleaming like
-silver in the morning light; and in the boat were Sylvia and Lewis.
-His heart stirred; those two young creatures were doing their work of
-humanising him.
-
-Presently Blair spoke some incoherent words of thanks, and Skelton
-turned. The two enemies of long standing faced each other. It was a
-moment exquisitely painful to both. Skelton, in being generous, could
-be thoroughly so; and he was more anxious to escape from Blair than
-Blair was to escape from him. He motioned with his hand deprecatingly
-and rang the bell. Bob Skinny appeared, and Skelton directed him to
-call Mr. Bulstrode and Miles Lightfoot. Skelton had no mind to take
-up any more time in the business than he could help. The subject was
-distasteful to him, and he intended to settle it all at one sitting.
-Likewise he employed no lawyer. He was lawyer enough for so simple a
-thing as an agreement of that sort; so in two minutes it was signed,
-witnessed, and sealed, and Blair had Skelton’s cheque in his pocket.
-Blair went off, half dazed, with his cheque and his agreement in his
-breast pocket. Skelton put his copy in his strong box, and when he had
-turned the key upon it he felt as if he had locked up his hatred with
-it. Bulstrode wanted to see him about some work he had finished, and
-Miles Lightfoot was eager to tell him something about his horses, but
-Skelton sent them both off impatiently. He was in no mood for books or
-horses then. He threw himself in his chair and enjoyed for the first
-time the luxury of befriending an enemy. Strange, strange feeling!
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXII.
-
-
-About one o’clock Lewis returned from his sail. Skelton had come out of
-the library then, and was walking up and down the stone porch. He had
-just got a note from Mrs. Blair--the most grateful, affectionate note.
-Skelton put it in his pocket to show Sylvia that afternoon, having
-promised himself the luxury of her sweet approval.
-
-Lewis came up to him and began to tell, boy fashion, of the sail he had
-down the river; the wonderful speed of his boat; how Sylvia had been
-frightened at a few white caps, and how he had reassured her. Skelton
-listened smiling. Lewis was a little vain of his accomplishments as a
-sailor. Then, after a few moments, Skelton said to him gravely:
-
-“Lewis, you remember what you are so anxious that no one should know
-about you?”
-
-“Yes, sir,” answered Lewis, blushing.
-
-“I have arranged so that I do not think it will be known for some
-years certainly--possibly never. Mr. Blair, Mr. Bulstrode, and I have
-arranged it.”
-
-The boy looked at him with shining eyes. “Some years” sounds like
-“forever” to extreme youth. His face was expressive with delight. He
-came up to Skelton, and of his own accord laid his hand timidly upon
-Skelton’s arm. It was the second time in his life that he had ever done
-such a thing, and the first time he had ever seen Skelton overcome with
-emotion. He looked at the boy with an intensity of affection that was
-moving; a mist came into his eyes. He rose and walked quickly to the
-end of the porch, leaving Lewis standing by his empty chair--amazed,
-touched, at what he saw before him. Skelton’s weakness was womanish,
-but he did not feel ashamed of it. He felt that in the boy’s heart the
-natural affection was quickening for which he had longed with a great
-longing.
-
-After a while he turned and made some ordinary remark to Lewis, who
-answered him in the same way; but there was a sweet, ineffable change
-in their attitude one to the other. Nature had her rights, and she had
-vindicated herself. Lewis fondly thought the disgrace that he dreaded
-was forever removed from him, and no longer struggled against that
-feeling of a son for his father that had been steadily growing in his
-breast, although as steadily repressed, ever since he had known really
-who he was.
-
-As for Skelton, he walked down towards the river in a kind of ecstasy.
-The boy’s heart was his. No lover winning his mistress ever felt a more
-delicious triumph.
-
-As he strolled along by the cedar hedges near the river, and the masses
-of crape myrtle and syringa, that could withstand the salt air and
-the peevish winds of winter, he began to consider all his new sources
-of happiness. There was the deep, tumultuous joy of Sylvia’s love,
-and the profound tenderness he felt for Lewis, that had only grown
-the more for the stern subduing of it; and there was that awakened
-creative power which made him feel like a new man. And the spectre
-of his hatred of Blair had been laid at least for a time--no one can
-hate the being one has just benefitted. And then, looking about him,
-he felt that Deerchase was not a possession to be despised. He had
-seen too much real grandeur to overestimate the place; yet it was
-singularly beautiful, not only with the beauty of green old gardens
-and giant trees that clustered around the stately house, and noble
-expanses of velvety turf and dewy woods, but it had that rich beauty
-of a great, productive, landed estate. Nature was not only lovely, but
-she was beneficent. Those green fields brought forth lavishly year
-after year. There was room, and work, and food for all. Skelton saw,
-half a mile inland, the negroes weeding out the endless ranks of the
-corn, then as high as a man’s head, and flaunting its splendid green
-banners magnificently in the August air. The toilers were merry, and
-sang as they worked; two or three other negroes were half working, half
-idling about the grounds, in careless self-content; Bob Skinny sunned
-himself under a tree, with his “fluke” across his knee; and the peacock
-strutted up and down haughtily on the velvet grass. The river was all
-blue and gold, and a long summer swell broke upon the sandy shore. All
-the beauty of the scene seemed to enter into Skelton’s soul. It was
-exactly attuned to his feelings. He did not long for mountain heights
-and lonely peaks or wind-lashed waves; this sweet scene of peace and
-plenty was in perfect harmony with him.
-
-He was too happy to work then, but he felt within him a strange power
-to work within a few hours. As soon as night came he would go to the
-library; those long evenings of slothful dreaming and reading and
-painful idleness were no more; he would manage to do a full stint of
-work before midnight. He had written in the morning to Sylvia that he
-would not see her that day. He had apprehended that after his interview
-with Blair he might not be in the most heavenly frame of mind, but,
-on the contrary, he was so unexpectedly happy that he longed to go to
-Belfield then. But Sylvia would not be ready to see him; she would be
-taking a midday nap after her morning sail; he would go at his usual
-hour in the afternoon and surprise her.
-
-He continued to stroll about, his straw hat in his hand, that he might
-feel the soft south wind upon his forehead, and it reminded him of when
-he was a boy. How closely Lewis resembled him!--his ways, his tastes,
-were all the same, except healthier than his own had been. He never
-remembered the time when he had not withdrawn himself haughtily from
-his companions. Lewis was as proud and reserved as he had been, though
-from an altogether different motive; for with poor Lewis it was the
-reserve of a wounded soul. Skelton remembered well how, in his boyhood,
-he had lived in his boat, just as Lewis did, spending long hours lying
-flat in the bottom, merely exerting himself enough to keep the boat
-from overturning, and going far down into the bay, where the water was
-dark and troubled, instead of being blue and placid as it was in the
-broad and winding river.
-
-All day until five o’clock the beauty held. At that time Skelton came
-out on the stone porch to take his way across the bridge to Belfield.
-The sky had not lost its perfect blueness, but great masses of dense
-white clouds were piling up, and a low bank of dun color edged the
-western sky. The wind, too, was rising, and far down, beyond Lone
-Point, the white caps were tumbling over each other, and the wide
-bay was black and restless. Just as Skelton came out he saw the one
-snow-white sail of Lewis’s boat rounding Lone Point.
-
-Bulstrode was sitting on the porch, snuffing at the rich tea roses, and
-with the inevitable book in his hand; but he looked uneasy.
-
-“I wish,” he said to Skelton, “you’d speak to the boy about going
-out in that boat in all sorts of weather. There’s a storm coming up
-outside, and nothing will please him more than to be caught in it, and
-to come home and tell you how near he came to being drowned. You taught
-him to manage a boat much too well. He takes all manner of risks, by
-Jove!”
-
-“He is venturesome to the last degree,” replied Skelton, “and I cannot
-make him otherwise. But, as you know”--Skelton smiled, and hesitated a
-moment--“I suffer all sorts of palpitations when he is in danger. Yet,
-if he shirked it, I should detest him.” Bulstrode raised his shaggy
-brows significantly; he knew all this well enough without Skelton’s
-telling him. In a moment Skelton added:
-
-“It has also been a satisfaction to me to see this spirit in him, for
-it indicates he will be a man of action. I entreat you, Bulstrode,
-if you should outlive me, never let him become a mere dreamer. I
-would rather see him squander every dollar that will be his, if the
-possession of it should make him a mere _dilettante_--what I have been
-so long, but which I shall never be again, by heaven!”
-
-Bulstrode looked surprised. He could not imagine why a dissipated old
-hulk like himself should outlast Skelton, who was in the most perfect
-vigour of manhood. As he watched Skelton walking across the lawn to the
-bridge he could not but observe his grace, his thoroughbred air, the
-indescribable something that made other men commonplace beside him.
-
-“Don’t wonder the women fall in love with you!” he growled, returning
-to his book.
-
-Over at Belfield, Sylvia, with the train of her white gown over her
-arm, was walking daintily through the old-fashioned garden to an
-arbour, at the end of the main walk, with a rustic table and chairs in
-it. In good weather she and Skelton passed many hours there. Sylvia
-was quite alone this afternoon. Her father and mother had gone up the
-county for a two days’ visit, and left her at home perforce, because
-she would not go with them. Sylvia was, indeed, completely under
-Skelton’s spell. His word was law, his presence was everything. She
-felt acutely disappointed that she would not see him that day, but she
-would go to the arbour and fondly cheat herself into the belief that
-he would come. In the old days Sylvia had been a great reader, but
-under the new dispensation when she read at all she read idly--sweet
-verses, which were merely an epitome of that greater story of life
-and love that she was studying for herself. She went into the arbour
-and sat down, and spread Skelton’s note out upon the little table.
-What perfect notes he wrote!--brief and to the point, but exquisitely
-graceful--one of those gallant accomplishments that he excelled in. One
-round white arm supported her charming head; the other hung down at her
-side, the hand half open, as if her lover had just dropped it. Sylvia
-was as pretty a disconsolate picture as could be imagined when Skelton
-walked into the arbour. She started up, a beautiful rosy blush suddenly
-dawning.
-
-“Here I am, like an old fool,” said Skelton, smiling as he took her
-hand. “I concluded I couldn’t come, but then the wish to see you was
-too strong for me. See what a havoc you have made in my middle-aged
-heart!”
-
-“Your heart, at least, is not middle-aged,” answered Sylvia, with a
-sweet, insinuating smile; “and I wish,” she added with bold mendacity,
-“that you had some crow’s-feet and grey hairs. I adore crow’s-feet and
-grey hairs.”
-
-“I think you can find some of both to adore,” answered Skelton, with
-rather a grim smile in return.
-
-They were close by the rustic seat, and both of them sat down,
-Skelton’s arm just touching her rounded shoulder. The air had grown
-dark, and there was a kind of twilight in the arbour. They seemed as
-much alone as if they had been in the depths of the woods, instead of
-in an old-fashioned garden.
-
-“I shall have to build you a summerhouse at Deerchase,” said Skelton.
-“There is a pretty spot in the garden, near the river, where the
-roses have climbed all over an old latticework left standing since my
-mother’s time.”
-
-“And shall there be a tea table for me?”
-
-“Yes, a tea table--”
-
-Sylvia knitted her pretty brows.
-
-“I don’t know what we shall do about Mr. Bulstrode and the tea table.
-You and Lewis and I are just company enough, but Mr. Bulstrode will not
-fit in at all.”
-
-Sylvia was quite clever enough to see that Skelton did not intend
-to have Lewis left out of any scheme of happiness in which he was
-concerned, and therefore wisely included him.
-
-“I think,” said Skelton, “we will have to leave Bulstrode out of that
-little idyl. Bulstrode likes--reveres you, as he does all good and
-charming women, but he is undoubtedly afraid of women. He will probably
-take up his quarters in the wing, and only prowl about the library.
-But you and I and Lewis will be very happy. The boy loves you, and,
-Sylvia,” continued Skelton, with his sweetest eloquence of voice and
-look, “you have no conception of how he longs for affection. He is very
-proud and sensitive, and--poor little soul!--he has no friends but you
-and me and Bulstrode, I think.”
-
-“_I_ mean to be his friend,” said Sylvia in a low voice.
-
-“And I, too, felt that longing for affection until--until--” Skelton
-finished the sentence by kissing Sylvia’s fair red mouth.
-
-After a while Skelton told her delicately about the interview with
-Blair, except that voluntary doubling of what he had first given him.
-Sylvia listened, and thought Skelton certainly the most magnanimous man
-on earth. She quite forgot that Blair had a score against Skelton, and
-a long one, too.
-
-The late afternoon grew dark; the white clouds became a copper red, the
-dark line at the horizon rose angrily and covered the heavens. The air
-turned chilly, and the wind came up wildly from the bay. One of the
-northwest storms peculiar to the season and the latitude was brewing
-fast. But Skelton and Sylvia were quite oblivious of it--strangely so
-for Skelton, who was rarely forgetful or unobservant of what went on
-around him. But that whole day had been an epoch with him. When had he
-a whole day of complete happiness in his life? How many days can any
-mortal point to when one has become happy, has become generous, has
-become beloved? Yet, such had been this day with Skelton. Sylvia, who
-had been dear to him before, became dearer. Something in the time, the
-spot, the aloneness, waked a deeper passion in him than he had felt
-before. He forgot for the first time how the hours were flying. He
-could not have told, to save his life, how long he had sat in that half
-darkness, with Sylvia’s soft head upon his breast, her hand trembling
-in his. A sweet intoxication, different from anything he had ever felt
-before, possessed him. Suddenly the wind, which had soughed mournfully
-among the trees, rose to a shriek. It flung a rose branch full in
-Sylvia’s face, and a dash of cold rain came with it. Skelton started,
-rudely awakened from his dream. It was dark within the arbour and dark
-outside. What light still lingered in the sullen sky was a pale and
-ghastly glare. The river looked black, and, as the wind came screaming
-in from the ocean, it dashed the water high over the sandy banks. A
-greater change could not be imagined than from the soft beauty of the
-afternoon.
-
-Skelton and Sylvia both rose at the same moment. The rain had turned
-to hail; the storm that had been gathering all the afternoon at last
-burst upon them. In half a moment Sylvia’s white dress was drenched.
-As they stood at the entrance to the arbour, Skelton, with his arm
-around her, about to make a dash for the house, turned and glanced
-over his shoulder towards the river, and there, in the black and angry
-water, storm-tossed and lashed by the wind, a boat was floating bottom
-upwards. There had evidently not been time to take the sail down, and
-every minute it would disappear under the seething waves and then come
-up again--and clinging to the bottom of the boat was a drenched boyish
-figure that both Skelton and Sylvia recognised in a moment. It was
-Lewis Pryor. His hat was gone, and his jacket too; he was holding on
-desperately to the bottom of the boat, and the hurricane was driving
-the cockleshell down the river at a furious rate.
-
-Skelton uttered an exclamation like a groan and pointed to the boat.
-
-“See!” he cried, “he can scarcely hold on--he has probably been hurt.
-Go, dearest, go at once to the house; I must go to the boy.”
-
-There was a boat at the wharf, and the negroes, who had collected on
-the shore and were shrieking and running about wildly, were foolishly
-trying to raise the sail. In that one quick moment of parting,
-as Skelton’s eyes fell upon Sylvia’s, he saw in them an agony of
-apprehension for him. It was no safe matter to venture out in the
-violence of a northwest storm in the shallow pleasure boat that lay
-tossing at the wharf, with the negroes vainly and excitedly toiling at
-the sail, which the wind beat out of their strong hands like a whip.
-But Sylvia did not ask him to stay. Skelton pressed her once to his
-heart; he felt gratitude to her that she did not strive uselessly to
-detain him. He ran to the water’s edge, and just as he reached it the
-sail, which had been got up, ripped in two with a loud noise, and the
-mast snapped short off. The rope, though, that held the boat to the
-wharf did not give way, and a dozen stalwart negroes held on to it.
-
-Meanwhile, Lewis’s boat, that had been dimly visible through the hail
-and the mist, disappeared. The negroes uttered a loud shriek, which was
-echoed from the Deerchase shore by the crowd assembled there. Skelton’s
-wildly beating heart stood still, but in the next minute the boat
-reappeared some distance farther down the river. Lewis had slightly
-changed his position. He still hung on manfully, but he was not in as
-good a place as before. The sail, which still held, acted as a drag,
-so that the progress of the boat, although terribly swept and tossed
-about, was not very rapid.
-
-At the wharf it took a moment or two to clear away the broken mast
-and the rags of the sail. Two oars were in the bottom of the boat. As
-Skelton was about to spring into it he turned, and saw Sylvia standing
-on the edge of the wharf, her hands clasped, her hair half down and
-beaten about her pale face by the fierce gust, her white dress soaked
-with the rain. She had followed him involuntarily. In the excitement,
-and in his fierce anxiety for Lewis, Skelton had not until that moment
-thought of the danger to himself. But one look into Sylvia’s face
-showed him that she remembered it might be the last time on this earth
-that they would look into each other’s eyes. And in an instant, in
-the twinkling of an eye, Skelton’s passion for Lewis took its proper
-proportion--he loved Sylvia infinitely best at that moment. As if Fate
-would punish him for ever letting the boy’s claim interfere with the
-woman’s, he was called upon to take his life in his hand--that life
-that she had so beautifully transformed for that boy’s sake.
-
-And as Sylvia stood, in the rain and wind, Skelton holding her cold
-hands and looking at her with a desperate affection, some knowledge
-came from his soul to hers that at last she was supreme. Skelton
-himself felt that, when he set out upon that storm-swept river, he
-would indeed be setting out upon another river that led to a shoreless
-sea. This new, sweet life was saying to him, “Hail and farewell!”
-
-They had not stood thus for more than a minute, but it seemed a
-lifetime to both. When it dawned upon Sylvia that nothing short
-of Lewis’s cry for life could draw Skelton from her, a smile like
-moonlight passed over her pallid face. She had the same presentiment
-that Skelton had--he would never return alive. It was as if they heard
-together the solemn tolling of the bell that marked the passing of
-their happiness. But not even death itself could rob Sylvia of that
-one perfect moment. Then, out of the roar of the storm came a cry from
-Lewis. Skelton raised Sylvia’s hands and let them drop again. Neither
-spoke a word, and the next moment he was in the boat, that both wind
-and tide seized and drove down the river like an eggshell.
-
-Skelton had two oars, but they did him little good. He could not direct
-the boat at all; the wind that was blowing all the water out of the
-river blew him straight down towards Lone Point. He felt sure that he
-was following Lewis, and no doubt gaining on him, as he had no wet sail
-dragging after him, but the darkness had now descended. It was not more
-than seven o’clock, but it might have been midnight.
-
-Suddenly a terrific squall burst roaring upon the storm already raging.
-Skelton could hear the hurricane screaming before it struck him. He
-turned cold and faint when he thought about the boy clinging to the
-boat in the darkness. He was still trying to use his oars when the
-squall struck him. One oar was wrenched out of his hand as if it had
-been a straw, the other one broke in half.
-
-At that Skelton quietly dropped his arms, and a strange composure
-succeeded his agony of fear and apprehension about Lewis. He could now
-do nothing more for Lewis, and nothing for himself. He was athletic,
-although neither tall nor stout; but he did not have Lewis’s young
-litheness, and he was already much exhausted. There would be no
-clinging for hours to the bottom of the boat for him, and he was no
-swimmer; he would make a fight for his life, but he felt it would be
-of no avail. And Sylvia! As he recalled her last look upon him, he
-beat his forehead against the side of the boat like a madman; but the
-momentary wildness departed as quickly as it came. The recollection
-that he was on the threshold of another world calmed him with the awful
-majesty of the thought. He said to himself, “Sylvia understands--and
-she will never forget!” All sorts of strange ideas came crowding upon
-him in the darkness. All around him was a world of black and seething
-waters and shrieking winds. Could this be that blue and placid river
-upon which so much of his boyhood had been spent? Almost the first
-thing he remembered was standing at the windows of his nursery, when
-he was scarcely more than a baby, watching the dimpling shadows on
-the water, and wondering if it were deep enough to drown a very
-little boy. And he had lived in his boat as a boy, just as Lewis did.
-Then he remembered the September afternoon, so long ago, when he had
-taken Sylvia in his boat, and that night just such a terrible storm
-had come up as this; the bridge had been washed away, and the tide
-had overflowed all the flower beds at Deerchase and had come almost
-up to the hall door. He remembered the morning after, when he left
-Deerchase--the river, as far as eye could reach, a gigantic lagoon,
-muddy and turbulent. Would it look like that the next morning? and
-would a person drowned that night be found within a few hours? He did
-not remember ever to have heard of a single person being drowned in
-that river, and could not think whether the body would be washed ashore
-or would sink for days.
-
-Ah, how sweet had existence become! and in one day he had compassed
-the happiness of a lifetime. It was only a few hours ago that Lewis
-was sailing past Deerchase so gaily, and Sylvia’s soft hair had been
-so lately blown in his face by summer breezes. Presently in the midst
-of the darkness and the wildness he again heard a cry; he recognised
-Lewis’s voice, faint as it was, and almost drowned by the clamour of
-the winds and the waves. Skelton then felt a presentiment that Lewis
-would be saved, although he himself would undoubtedly be lost. And
-then came the feeling that the mystery of life was to be solved. No
-matter now about all his thoughts, all his speculations; in one moment
-he would know more than all the world could teach him about those vast
-mysteries that subtle men try to fathom. Skelton was too sincere a
-man and too fearless to change wholly within the few awful moments of
-suspension between two worlds. One was gone from him already, the other
-was close at hand. But he had always firmly believed in a Great First
-Cause, a Supreme Being. This belief took on strangely the likeness of
-the Christian God, the Father, Friend, the Maker who orders things
-wisely for His creatures. Instinctively he remembered the proverb of
-the poor peasants:
-
-“The good God builds the blind bird’s nest.”
-
-“If there be such a God,” Skelton said to himself, “I adore Him.” The
-next moment he felt himself struggling in the water, with blackness
-around him and above him, and the wind roaring, and a weight of water
-like a million tons fell upon him, and he knew no more.
-
-Within an hour the tempest had gone down and the clouds were drifting
-wildly across the pale sky. Occasionally the moon shone fitfully. The
-banks of the river were patrolled by frightened and excited crowds
-of negroes, with Bulstrode and Blair and Mr. Conyers and one or two
-other white persons among them, all engaged in the terrible search
-for Skelton and Lewis. The wind had suddenly changed to exactly the
-opposite direction, and the tide was running in with inconceivable
-rapidity. The black mud of the river bottom near the shore, that had
-been drained of water, was now quickly covered. Lights were moving
-along the shore, boats were being rowed about the river, and cries
-resounded, those asking for information that the others could not give.
-Sylvia Shapleigh had spent most of the time on the wharf where Skelton
-had left her. The servants had got around her, begging her to go to
-the house, out of the storm. Like a person in a dream, she went and
-changed her dress, and watched with dazed eyes the fury of sky and air
-and water. She could not wait for the watchers on the shore to tell
-her what was going on upon the river, and went back obstinately to the
-wharf, in spite of the prayers and entreaties of the servants. She
-tried to persuade herself that she was watching for Skelton’s return,
-but in her inmost heart she felt she would never see him alive again.
-
-It was about nine o’clock when she heard a shout some distance down
-the river, and a boat pulled up, through the ghostly light, towards
-Deerchase. Sylvia started in feverish haste towards the bridge. She ran
-in her eagerness. As she reached the farther end, just at the Deerchase
-lawn, she met Conyers coming towards her.
-
-[Illustration: “IT IS LEWIS--LEWIS IS ALIVE!” HE SAID. “HE IS
-EXHAUSTED, BUT WILL RECOVER.”--_Page 322_]
-
-“It is Lewis--Lewis is alive!” he said. “He tied the tiller rope
-around him--that was what saved him. He is exhausted, but he will
-recover. The boat was found drifting about just below Lone Point.”
-
-Sylvia tried to ask, “Has anything been heard of Mr. Skelton?” but she
-could not. Conyers understood the dumb question in her eyes, and shook
-his head. Poor, poor Sylvia!
-
-Sylvia, scarcely knowing what she did, walked by Conyers’s side across
-the Deerchase lawn. They met a crowd--Blair carrying Lewis in his
-arms, and Bulstrode trudging along weeping, and the negroes following.
-Lewis’s face was purplish, and he seemed scarcely to breathe; but when
-Bob Skinny came running out of the house with a bottle of brandy, and
-they poured some down his throat, he opened his eyes and managed to
-gasp, “Where is Mr. Skelton?”
-
-Nobody answered him. Lewis gulped down more brandy, and cried out in a
-weak, distressed voice:
-
-“I saw Mr. Skelton put off in the boat for me, and I was so afraid for
-him--”
-
-His head fell over; he could not finish what he was saying.
-
-Blair and Bulstrode took the boy in the house and put him to bed and
-worked with him; but Sylvia could not leave the shore, and Conyers
-stayed with her and Bob Skinny, down whose ashy face a constant stream
-of tears poured. Conyers tried to encourage Sylvia--the search was
-still going on, up and down the river--but she looked at him with calm,
-despairing eyes.
-
-An hour before midnight a boat was seen coming up the river from Lone
-Point. Almost immediately the distant cries, the commotion along the
-shore ceased. It was the first boat that had returned, except the
-one that brought Lewis. The negroes all gathered in crowds at the
-Deerchase landing. Sylvia and Conyers stood on the little pier. The
-moon was at the full by that time, and although the water was still
-dark and troubled, the silver disc shone with pale serenity, and the
-stars glittered in the midnight sky. Conyers, although used to sights
-of human suffering, turned his face away from Sylvia’s pallid anguish.
-When the boat struck the steps that led down from the wharf, the
-negroes suddenly uttered their weird shrieks of lamentation. Skelton’s
-body was being lifted out.
-
-Sylvia advanced a step, and the bearers laid their burden down before
-her. One side of his face was much discoloured, and one arm hung
-down, where it had been wrenched out of its socket. Conyers tore open
-the coat and placed his hand upon Skelton’s heart. There was not the
-slightest flutter. The discoloured face was set--he had been dead some
-little time. Sylvia neither wept nor lamented. Her terrible calmness
-made Conyers’s blood run chill.
-
-“Carry him to the house,” she said, after a moment, in which she had
-leaned down and touched his cold forehead. “He is quite dead. It is not
-worth while to send for a doctor. See, this terrible blow upon the head
-stunned him--perhaps killed him. I never saw a dead person before, but
-I tell you there is nothing to be done for him.”
-
-The negroes took him up and carried him tenderly, Bob Skinny holding
-the poor dislocated arm in place, and everybody wept except Sylvia.
-Skelton had been a good master, and the horror of his death worked
-upon the quick sympathies of the negroes. Sylvia walked blindly after
-them, not knowing where she was going, and not caring. The house was
-lighted up, as the house servants had been alarmed in the beginning of
-the storm. The body was carried in the house and laid down in the hall;
-and Bulstrode, coming down the broad stairs and looking at what once
-was Richard Skelton, turned pale and almost fainted.
-
-Then there was an awful moment of uncertainty. What was to be done?
-Bulstrode was clearly unable to give directions or to do anything.
-Blair was working with Lewis upstairs, and, besides, there was
-something too frightfully incongruous in applying to him. Conyers, his
-heart breaking for Sylvia, dared not leave her, and there was nobody to
-do for the master of the house. Then Bob Skinny, the most useless, the
-vainest, the least dependable of creatures, suddenly came to the fore.
-He had loved Skelton with blind devotion, and he had been the person
-who was with Skelton the most of any one in the world.
-
-“I kin see ’bout Mr. Skelton,” he said, trembling. “Me and Sam Trotter,
-an’ dese here house niggers kin do fer him.”
-
-Bulstrode, on coming to himself, actually ran out of the house to
-escape that terrible Presence that had just made its majestic self
-known. Sylvia, on the contrary, could not be forced away until she had
-at least seen Skelton once more. Conyers sat by her in one of the great
-drawing-rooms, awed at her perfectly silent and tearless grief. A few
-candles made the darkness visible. The room was one that was never
-used except upon some festive occasion, and the contrast of Sylvia
-sitting in mute despair in the gala room was a ghastly epitome of life
-and death. Overhead was audible occasionally the muffled sound of the
-watchers moving about Lewis Pryor’s bed; and across the hall, on the
-other side, could be heard distinctly in the midnight stillness the
-gruesome preparations that His Majesty Death requires. Conyers was as
-silent as Sylvia. His emotions were always insoluble in speech, and now
-they froze the words upon his tongue. As soon as that one last look at
-Skelton was had Sylvia must leave the house.
-
-After waiting as much as an hour, a step was heard crossing the hall,
-and Bob Skinny, with a candle in his hand, opened the door noiselessly
-and beckoned to Conyers.
-
-Sylvia rose too. She knew what that gesture meant. She walked firmly
-forward a few steps, and then stopped, trembling; but, with a supreme
-effort, she went upon her way, Conyers close at hand but not touching
-her. She felt herself to be in a dream as she crossed the familiar
-hall and entered the library, which was peculiarly Skelton’s room.
-She turned and closed the door after her, which Conyers had left
-partly open. The great room was dimly lighted, but the light scarcely
-penetrated the deep darkness of the corners, and the ceiling was lost
-in gloom. A window was open, and through it came softly a faint,
-chill, odoriferous wind. Sylvia remembered Skelton once telling her
-that in the East such a wind was called the Wind of Death. The heavy
-curtains moved gently, as if touched by a ghostly hand, and a branch
-of white hydrangeas, with which the fireplace was filled, trembled at
-it. On the sofa lay Skelton, looking the least deathlike object in
-the room. He was dressed in his ordinary evening clothes, and on his
-delicate high-arched feet were black silk stockings and pumps with
-diamond buckles. He lay on his side quite naturally, his dislocated arm
-drawn up under the discoloured side of his face, so that both injuries
-were quite concealed. Anything more natural or graceful could not be
-conceived. He seemed to have thrown himself on the lounge after dinner,
-and have dropped asleep for a few moments.
-
-It was the first dead person Sylvia had ever seen, and at first that
-natural human horror of the dead quite overcame her. She covered her
-face and fell on a chair, and presently looked fearfully around her,
-and everything was terrifying until she saw Skelton. All at once horror
-of him was banished. She was no more afraid than if he had been lying
-before her asleep.
-
-She went up to him, and knelt by him fondly. She smoothed the black
-hair off the pale forehead with a sweet sense of familiarity. She had
-felt constrained by a maiden diffidence from any of those caresses that
-a woman sometimes bestows on the man she loves. She never remembered
-having touched his hair before until that very afternoon, when he had
-made that remark about his grey hairs. Yes, there were plenty. She
-passed the locks through her fingers--it was soft and rich, although
-beginning to lose its perfect blackness. She examined his face
-carefully; it was so clear cut--she had never seen a mouth and chin and
-nose more delicately and finely outlined.
-
-“He is not really handsome,” she said to herself, looking at him with
-ineffable tenderness; “but people had eyes for nobody else when he was
-before them. And how strangely young he looks! and so like Lewis!” For
-the wonderful youthfulness which death sometimes restores to the human
-countenance made Skelton and Lewis most extraordinarily alike at that
-moment.
-
-“And how happy we should have been!” she continued, half aloud. “I
-meant to have made him love me more through that boy. I took very
-meekly the love he gave me, because I knew the time would come when it
-would be all mine--all--all. It came at the very moment that we were
-forever parted.”
-
-Sylvia bent down to kiss the cold face, and suddenly drew back,
-blushing redly, and looking about to see if she was watched--it had
-so entirely escaped her that this was not Skelton. She put her warm
-young arms around his neck, and kissed him a dozen times, when in a
-moment the coldness, the horrible insensibility before her penetrated
-her heart. She darted up and ran wildly to the door, almost knocking
-Conyers over, who was just about to enter. She seized his hand, and,
-trembling violently, cried out:
-
-“I was just a moment ago in love with a corpse--with a dead man, who
-could not open his eyes or feel or hear anything; and was it not most
-unnatural and horrible? Pray, let us go--”
-
-Conyers caught her cold hands in his, and the words he was about to
-speak died on his lips, so much did Sylvia’s face appal him. She flew
-out of the house, across the lawn, and was almost at the bridge before
-Conyers caught up with her.
-
-“You will kill yourself,” he said breathlessly, but Sylvia only sped on.
-
-There had been no sleep at Belfield that night. A messenger had been
-sent to Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh, but they could not get home before
-morning. As Sylvia rushed into the house as if pursued, Conyers said:
-
-“Let me send for Mrs. Blair.”
-
-“No, I will be alone,” answered Sylvia.
-
-“God will be with you,” said Conyers.
-
-“Yes,” replied Sylvia, walking about the dimly lighted hall, “God will
-be with me. I have had a great many doubts, as you know. I asked--”
-She stopped in her restless walk and tried to speak Skelton’s name,
-but could not. She continued: “He always put me off gently. He told me
-those people were best off who could believe in God, the Father of us
-all; that it was very simple, but simple things were usually the best.
-He told me I might read a great deal--my mind was very eager on the
-subject--but that those who claim God is not proved cannot themselves
-prove he is not. And I can even believe in the goodness of God now,
-for, at the very moment that I was to lose--” She still could not speak
-Skelton’s name, and indicated it by a pause--“I had one moment of
-rapture that was worth a lifetime of pain. I found out that _he_ loved
-me better than he had ever loved anything on earth. Nothing can ever
-rob me of that moment. I shall carry it through this world and into the
-next, where there is a glorious possibility that we may meet again.”
-
-She turned, and went quietly and noiselessly up the broad, winding
-stair. She looked like a white shadow in the gloomy half-light. About
-midway the stair, her form, that to Conyers, watching her, had grown
-dimmer at every step, melted softly into the darkness.
-
-Conyers turned and left the house.
-
-When he reached Deerchase again everything was solemnly quiet. In a
-corner of the hall Bulstrode was sitting by the round table, with
-a lamp on it, leaning his head upon his hands. Lewis was sleeping
-upstairs, and Blair was watching him. Conyers, ever mindful of others,
-sent the servants off to bed and closed the house. He would be the
-watcher for the rest of the night. It was then about two o’clock in the
-morning. Conyers went into the library and looked long and fearlessly
-at that which lay so peacefully on the sofa. Death had no terrors for
-him. He believed the human soul worth everything in the world, but the
-body, living or dead, mattered but little.
-
-On the table lay a riding glove of Skelton’s, still retaining the shape
-of the fingers. Scraps of his writing were about--two letters, sealed
-and addressed--a book with the paper knife still lying between its
-uncut leaves. Conyers, calm and almost stoical, looked at it all, and
-then, going into the hall, sat down at the table where Bulstrode was,
-and, opening a small Bible in his pocket, began to read the Gospel of
-St. Matthew. The light from the lamp fell upon his stern features, that
-to the ordinary eye were commonplace enough, but to the keener one
-were full of spirituality. He was half-educated, but wholly good. He
-wandered and blundered miserably, but faith and goodness dwelt within
-him.
-
-After a while Bulstrode spoke, his rich voice giving emphasis to his
-earnest words:
-
-“Conyers, I would give all I know for the peace you enjoy.”
-
-“Peace!” said poor Conyers, raising his sombre eyes to Bulstrode’s. “I
-have no peace. It is all warfare.”
-
-“But with the warfare you have peace, and you have no fear
-of--_It_”--Bulstrode shuddered, and pointed toward the library door,
-which was slightly ajar--“nor even of death, which has turned Skelton
-to _It_ in one moment of time.”
-
-“I certainly have no fear,” answered Conyers, after a pause. “I doubt,
-I am at war, I suffer agonies of mind, but not once have I ever feared
-death. I fear life much more.”
-
-Bulstrode said nothing for a moment, then disappeared, his shuffling
-step sounding with awful distinctness through the silent house. He came
-back after a little while. The fumes of brandy were strong upon him,
-and in his hand he carried two or three volumes.
-
-“Here,” said he, laying the books down carefully, “here is what I
-read when all the mysterious fears of human nature beset and appal
-me--Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas. They are the only two philosophers
-who agree, after all. Old Aristotle went to work and built the most
-beautiful and perfect bridge, that ever entered into the mind of man
-to conceive, a part of the way across the river that separates the
-known from the unknown. He got a solid foundation for every stone of
-that bridge; every step is safe; nothing can wash it away. But he
-reached a point where he could not see any farther. Mists obscured it
-all. If any man that ever lived could have carried this bridge all
-the way over in its beauty and perfection, Aristotle was that man;
-but having carried it farther than it had ever been carried before,
-he said: ‘Here reason stops. Man can do no more. The Great First
-Principle must now reveal the rest.’ Observe: All the others claim to
-have done a complete work. Kant built a great raft that floated about
-and kept men from drowning, but it is not a plain pathway on a bridge;
-it cannot connect the two shores; nobody can get from the known to the
-unknown on it. Hegel built two or three beautiful arches and called it
-complete, but it stopped far short of Aristotle’s, and led nowhere.
-Then there were dozens of other fellows, wading around in the shallows
-and paddling aimlessly about the river, and all crying out: ‘Here is
-the way; this is the ferry to cross. There is no way but mine, and my
-way is the only perfect way. There is no more to know except what I
-can tell you.’ But Aristotle, who is the embodied Mind, said there was
-more to come; he saw beyond him the wavering line of the other shore;
-but where he stood was all mist and darkness. He knew--ah, the wise old
-Greek!--knew his work stopped short, and he knew it could be carried to
-the end. He was so great, therefore, that no imperfections could escape
-him; and he did not mistake his splendid fragment for the whole. And
-he knew a part so splendid must be a part of the whole. He saw, as it
-were, the open door, but he could not enter; he had heard the overture
-played, but he could not remain to see the curtain rise. But fourteen
-hundred years after Aristotle had done all that mortal man could do
-towards solving the great problems of being, came the man who was to
-take up the work with the same tools, the same method, that Aristotle
-had left off. Ah! that magnificent old heathen knew that it was to
-come. But why do I call him a heathen? Zounds, Conyers, if any man ever
-gave a leg to revealed religion, it was Aristotle!”
-
-Conyers was listening attentively. Bulstrode’s manner was grotesque,
-but his earnestness was extreme and moving.
-
-He picked up one of his books and caressed it.
-
-“This other man was Thomas Aquinas. I can’t help believing these
-two men to be now together in some happy region--perhaps in a
-garden--walking up and down, and in communion together. I daresay the
-Greek was a lean, eagle-eyed man, like ‘_It_’ in yonder--” Bulstrode
-looked over his shoulder at the library door--“and Thomas was a great,
-lumbering, awkward, silent creature. His fellow-students called him the
-‘Dumb Ox,’ but his master said, ‘One day the bellowing of this ox shall
-shake the world.’ He was on the other side of the river, and he saw the
-beautiful bridge more than half way across, and he went to work boldly
-to build up to it. There were so many mists and shadows, that things on
-Aristotle’s side had huge, uncanny, misshapen figures to those on the
-opposite side. And there were quicksands, too, and sometimes it was
-hard to find a bottom. But this Thomas Aquinas found it, and behold!
-Magnificent arches spanning the mysterious river--a clear pathway
-forever from one side to the other, from the known to the unknown, from
-philosophy to the revealed religion.”
-
-All the time he had been speaking Conyers’s melancholy eyes, which had
-been fixed on him, gradually lightened, and when Bulstrode stopped they
-were glowing.
-
-“It is of comfort to me to hear you say that,” he said.
-
-“So it was to Meno when Aristotle said he believed in the immortality
-of the soul. Meno said, ‘I like what you are saying’; and the
-Greek answered pleasantly--ah, he was a pleasant fellow, this wise
-Aristotle--‘I, too, like what I am saying. Some things I have said
-of which I am not altogether confident; but that we shall be better
-and braver and less helpless if we think we ought to inquire, than we
-should have been if we had indulged the idle fancy that there was no
-use in seeking to know what we do not know, that is a theme upon which
-I am ready to fight in word and deed to the utmost of my power.’”
-
-“But Aristotle acknowledges there were some things he said about the
-great question of which he was not ‘confident.’”
-
-“Yes, yes,” replied Bulstrode impatiently. “There are two voices in
-every soul--one doubting and dreading, the other believing and loving.
-You see, the other fellows--Hegel and the rest of the crew--are
-perfectly cocksure; they are certain of everything. But old Aristotle
-saw that something in the way of proof was wanting, and that great,
-silent Thomas Aquinas supplied the rest--that is, if there is anything
-in Aristotle’s method of reasoning.”
-
-“Then why are you not a follower of Thomas Aquinas into the revealed
-religion?” asked Conyers.
-
-Bulstrode was silent a moment, sighing heavily.
-
-“Because--because--Thomas Aquinas leads me inevitably into the field of
-morals. You see, all rational religions are deuced moral, and that’s
-what keeps me away from ’em. I tell you, Conyers, that if you had led
-such a life as I have, you’d be glad enough to think that it was all
-over when the blood stopped circulating and the breath ceased. My
-awful doubt is, that it’s all _true_--that it doesn’t stop; that not
-only life goes on forever, but that the terribly hard rules laid down
-by that peasant in Galilee are, after all, the code for humanity, and
-then--great God! what is to become of us?”
-
-Bulstrode stopped again and wiped his brow.
-
-“You see,” he continued, in some agitation, after a moment, “you want
-it to be true--you dread that it can’t be true--you are tormented with
-doubts and harassed with questions. _I_ don’t want it to be true. I
-believe with Aristotle that there is a Great First Principle. I can
-be convinced by my reason of that; and I think there is overwhelming
-presumptive proof of the immortality of the soul; but then--there may
-be more, there may be more. The Jewish carpenter, with that wonderful
-code of morals, may be right, after all, and I am sincerely afraid
-of it; and if I went all the way of the road with Thomas Aquinas, I
-should reach, perhaps, a terrible certainty. Talk about Wat Bulstrode
-being pure of heart, and keeping himself unspotted from the world,
-and loving them who do him evil--and the whole code in its awful
-beauty--why, if that be true, then I am the most miserable man alive!
-Sometimes I tell myself, if that code were lived up to the social
-system would go to pieces; and then it occurs to me, that ideal was
-made purposely so divine that there was not the slightest danger of the
-poor human creetur’ ever reaching it, in this place of wrath and tears;
-that the most he can do is to reach towards it, and _that_ lifts him
-immeasurably. But that very impossible perfection, like everything else
-about it, is unique, solitary, creative. All other codes of morals are
-possible--all lawgivers appoint a limit to human patience, forbearance;
-but this strange code does not. And that’s why I say I am afraid--I’m
-afraid it’s true.”
-
-Conyers sat looking--looking straight before him. He feared it was
-not true, and Bulstrode feared it was true; and he asked himself if
-anything more indicative of the vast gulf between two beings of the
-same species could be conceived.
-
-Bulstrode began again. His head was sunk on his breast, and he seemed
-to fall into the deepest dejection.
-
-“And you’ve got good fighting ground. I realise that every time I try
-in my own mind to fight this Dumb Ox.” He laid his great hand on one of
-the volumes before him. “There is that tremendous argument of cause and
-effect. All the other founders of religions--I mean the real religions,
-not the fanciful mythologies--were great men. Buddha and Mohammed would
-have been great men had they never broached the subject of religion;
-and they had a lifetime to work in. And then comes this Jewish
-carpenter, and he does nothing--absolutely nothing--except preach for
-a little while in the most obscure corner of the Roman Empire, and
-is executed for some shadowy offence against the ecclesiastical law,
-and behold! his name is better known than the greatest conqueror, the
-wisest philosopher that ever lived. Where one man knows of Aristotle, a
-thousand know of him. Now, how could such an enormous effect come from
-such a trifling cause? Who was this carpenter, with his new doctrine of
-democracy--socialism, if you will--the rights of the masses; and the
-masses didn’t know they had any rights until then!
-
-“Most of you half-taught fellows find your arguments in the code of
-morals; but although, as I see, the code is ideally far superior to any
-other, yet all are good; there were good morals taught ever since man
-came upon the earth, for good morals means ordinary common sense.
-
-“But this religion of the carpenter is peculiar. It does for thinkers,
-and for the innumerable multitudes of the ages that don’t think and
-can’t think. It’s wonderful, and it may be true. And, Conyers, if I
-were a good man, instead of a worthless dog, I would not give up the
-belief for all the kingdoms of the earth.”
-
-Bulstrode got up then and went away again.
-
-Conyers sat, turning over in his mind the curious circumstance that all
-of his so-called theological training that was meant to convince him of
-the truths of religion was so badly stated, so confusedly reasoned,
-that it opened the way to a fiendish company of doubts; while
-Bulstrode, who frankly declared his wish that there might be no future
-life, helped, by his very fears, to make Conyers a better Christian
-than before.
-
-When Bulstrode returned, the odour of brandy was stronger than ever; he
-went to the brandy bottle for fortitude as naturally as Conyers went to
-his Bible.
-
-But his eye was brighter, his gait was less slouching, and a new
-courage seemed to possess him.
-
-Before this he had turned his back to the library door, and in his two
-expeditions after consolation Conyers noticed that he had walked as far
-away from that door as possible. But now he boldly went towards the
-library, and went in and stayed a considerable time.
-
-When he returned he sat down trembling, and his eyes filled with tears.
-
-“I have been to see _It_. What a strange thing was _It_ when _It_ was
-alive, five hours ago! How has _It_ fared since? How fares _It_ now?
-How far has _It_ travelled in those five hours? Or is _It_ near at
-hand? When _It_ was living--when _It_ was Skelton--he was the most
-interesting man I ever knew. He had tremendous natural powers, and, had
-not fortune been too kind to him, he would have been known to the whole
-world by this time. He was weighted down with money; it was an octopus
-to him; it enabled him to do everything he ought not to have done, and
-it kept him from doing everything he ought to have done. It gave him a
-library that swamped him; it enabled him to hire other men to think
-for him, when he could have thought much better for himself; it put it
-in his power to follow his enemies relentlessly, and to punish them
-remorselessly. Ah, Conyers, old Aristotle himself said, ‘And rich in a
-high degree, and good in a high degree, a man cannot be.’ What a great
-good it is that few of us can spare the time, the thought, the money,
-for our revenges like Skelton! Most of us can only utter a curse and go
-about our business, but Skelton could pursue his revenge like a game of
-skill. Fate, however, defeats us all. Let man go his way; Fate undoes
-all the web he weaves so laboriously. Skelton spent twenty years trying
-to ruin Blair, and I believe he saved him. Nothing but some terrible
-catastrophe such as Skelton brought about would ever have cured Blair
-of that frenzy for the turf.
-
-“But everything with Skelton went according to the rule of contrary.
-Did you ever know before of a rich man who was disinterestedly loved?
-Yet, I tell you, that English girl that married him could have married
-a coronet. His money was a mere bagatelle to hers, and I believe as
-truly as I live that Skelton was disinterested in marrying that huge
-fortune.
-
-“And Sylvia Shapleigh--ah, that poor, pretty Sylvia!--she will never be
-merry any more; and you and I will never see those green-grey eyes of
-hers sparkle under her long lashes again. She was the most desperately
-in love with Skelton of any creature I ever saw. She didn’t mind the
-boy--she knew all about Lewis--she didn’t mind anything; she loved this
-rich man not for his money, but for himself. Did you ever hear of such
-a queer thing on this ridiculous old planet before? And Lewis--the boy
-of whom Skelton was at first ashamed--how proud he became of him! and
-how he craved that boy’s love! And nobody ever held out so long against
-Skelton as that black-eyed boy, the living image of him, his son from
-the crown of his head to the sole of the foot.
-
-“But at last Skelton won Lewis over; he won Sylvia Shapleigh; he won
-the power to work; he won everything; only this day he won the battle
-over himself; he was generous to Blair, and then in the midst of it
-comes Death, the great jester, and says, ‘Mount behind me; leave all
-unfinished.’ And Skelton went. The little spark of soul went, that is,
-and left behind the mass of the body it dragged around after it.”
-
-Bulstrode paused again, and Conyers, opening the Bible, read some
-of the promises out of the Gospel of Matthew. Bulstrode listened
-attentively.
-
-“Read that part where it commands the forgiveness of enemies,” he said.
-
-Conyers read them, his voice, although low, echoing solemnly through
-the great, high-pitched hall. Bulstrode covered his face with his
-hands, and then, rising suddenly, went a second time to the library. He
-came back in a few moments. His coarse face was pale, his eyes dimmed.
-
-“I have forgiven him--I have forgiven Skelton,” he said. “He was not
-good to me, although he was a thousand, thousand times better to me
-than I was to myself; but I have forgiven him all I had against him.
-The dead are so meek; even the proud Skelton looks meek in death. And
-I tell you, he was a man all but great--all but good.”
-
-The lamp was burning low; there was a faint flutter of sparrows’ wings
-under the eaves; a wind, fresh and soft, rustled among the climbing
-roses that clung to the outer wall; a blackbird burst suddenly into his
-homely song, as if bewitched with the ecstasy of the morning. The pale
-grey light that penetrated the chinks and crannies of the hall changed
-as if by magic to a rosy colour. The day was at hand. Conyers closed
-his Bible, and said, with solemn joy, to Bulstrode:
-
-“And so you fear all this is true? What ineffable comfort it gives me!
-A man of your learning and--”
-
-“Learning!” cried Bulstrode, throwing himself back in his chair. “Look
-at _It_ in yonder! _It_ was learned; _I_ am learned; but all of us can
-only cry, as the Breton mariners do when they put to sea: ‘Lord, have
-mercy upon us! for our boat is so small, and Thy ocean is so black and
-so wide!’”
-
-“Amen!” said Conyers, after a moment.
-
-
-THE END.
-
-
-
-
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