“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.