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!