“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.