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diff --git a/old/69193-0.txt b/old/69193-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2fab56d..0000000 --- a/old/69193-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9978 +0,0 @@ -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. - - - - -Popular Copyright Books - -AT MODERATE PRICES - -Any of the following titles can be bought of your bookseller at 50 -cents per volume. - - - =The Shepherd of the Hills.= By Harold Bell Wright. - =Jane Cable.= By George Barr McCutcheon. - =Abner Daniel.= By Will N. Harben. - =The Far Horizon.= By Lucas Malet. - =The Halo.= By Bettina von Hutten. - =Jerry Junior.= By Jean Webster. - =The Powers and Maxine=. By C. N. and A. M. 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