“I have been to see It. What a strange thing was It when It was alive, five hours ago! How has It fared since? How fares It now? How far has It travelled in those five hours? Or is It near at hand? When It was living—when It was Skelton—he was the most interesting man I ever knew. He had tremendous natural powers, and, had not fortune been too kind to him, he would have been known to the whole world by this time. He was weighted down with money; it was an octopus to him; it enabled him to do everything he ought not to have done, and it kept him from doing everything he ought to have done. It gave him a library that swamped him; it enabled him to hire other men to think for him, when he could have thought much better for himself; it put it in his power to follow his enemies relentlessly, and to punish them remorselessly. Ah, Conyers, old Aristotle himself said, ‘And rich in a high degree, and good in a high degree, a man cannot be.’ What a great good it is that few of us can spare the time, the thought, the money, for our revenges like Skelton! Most of us can only utter a curse and go about our business, but Skelton could pursue his revenge like a game of skill. Fate, however, defeats us all. Let man go his way; Fate undoes all the web he weaves so laboriously. Skelton spent twenty years trying to ruin Blair, and I believe he saved him. Nothing but some terrible catastrophe such as Skelton brought about would ever have cured Blair of that frenzy for the turf.
“But everything with Skelton went according to the rule of contrary. Did you ever know before of a rich man who was disinterestedly loved? Yet, I tell you, that English girl that married him could have married a coronet. His money was a mere bagatelle to hers, and I believe as truly as I live that Skelton was disinterested in marrying that huge fortune.
“And Sylvia Shapleigh—ah, that poor, pretty Sylvia!—she will never be merry any more; and you and I will never see those green-grey eyes of hers sparkle under her long lashes again. She was the most desperately in love with Skelton of any creature I ever saw. She didn’t mind the boy—she knew all about Lewis—she didn’t mind anything; she loved this rich man not for his money, but for himself. Did you ever hear of such a queer thing on this ridiculous old planet before? And Lewis—the boy of whom Skelton was at first ashamed—how proud he became of him! and how he craved that boy’s love! And nobody ever held out so long against Skelton as that black-eyed boy, the living image of him, his son from the crown of his head to the sole of the foot.
“But at last Skelton won Lewis over; he won Sylvia Shapleigh; he won the power to work; he won everything; only this day he won the battle over himself; he was generous to Blair, and then in the midst of it comes Death, the great jester, and says, ‘Mount behind me; leave all unfinished.’ And Skelton went. The little spark of soul went, that is, and left behind the mass of the body it dragged around after it.�
Bulstrode paused again, and Conyers, opening the Bible, read some of the promises out of the Gospel of Matthew. Bulstrode listened attentively.
“Read that part where it commands the forgiveness of enemies,� he said.
Conyers read them, his voice, although low, echoing solemnly through the great, high-pitched hall. Bulstrode covered his face with his hands, and then, rising suddenly, went a second time to the library. He came back in a few moments. His coarse face was pale, his eyes dimmed.
“I have forgiven him—I have forgiven Skelton,� he said. “He was not good to me, although he was a thousand, thousand times better to me than I was to myself; but I have forgiven him all I had against him. The dead are so meek; even the proud Skelton looks meek in death. And I tell you, he was a man all but great—all but good.�
The lamp was burning low; there was a faint flutter of sparrows’ wings under the eaves; a wind, fresh and soft, rustled among the climbing roses that clung to the outer wall; a blackbird burst suddenly into his homely song, as if bewitched with the ecstasy of the morning. The pale grey light that penetrated the chinks and crannies of the hall changed as if by magic to a rosy colour. The day was at hand. Conyers closed his Bible, and said, with solemn joy, to Bulstrode:
“And so you fear all this is true? What ineffable comfort it gives me! A man of your learning and—�