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.