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.