“Perfectly. I never had such a startling adventure with a young lady before or since.�
There is something peculiarly charming in the simplicity of people who are something and somebody in themselves. Sylvia realized this when she saw how Skelton’s way of saying ordinary things lifted them quite above the ordinary.
How easy and natural he made it all! she thought. And she had expected the great, the grand, the wonderful Skelton to talk like one of Mr. Addison’s essays. What a thing it was to travel and see the world, to be sure! That was why Skelton was so easy, and put her so much at ease too.
Skelton, meanwhile, was in no enviable frame of mind. Elizabeth Blair’s presence brought back painful recollections. He remembered some foolish threats he had made, and he thought, with renewed wonder and disgust, how he had walked the library floor at Deerchase, night after night, in frightful agitation, afraid to look toward the table drawer where his pistols lay for fear of the horrible temptation to end it all with a pistol shot. She was a sweet enough creature, but no woman that ever lived was worth half the suffering he had undergone for her. After all, though, it was not so much regret for her as it was rage that another man should supplant him. The same feeling waked suddenly and powerfully within his breast. He had always despised Blair, and he found the impulse just as strong as ever—a fellow who spent his days galloping over fields and bawling after dogs preferred to him, Richard Skelton! Nevertheless, he went up and talked pleasantly and naturally to Elizabeth, and inquired, as in duty and politeness bound, after the whole Armistead tribe. Elizabeth was the only one of them left, and Skelton listened gravely while she told him freely some family particulars. He had heard of Hilary and little Mary, and expressed a wish that Hilary should be friends with his own protégé, Lewis Pryor. He carefully repeated what he had told Mr. Shapleigh about Lewis; but Mrs. Blair said no word of encouragement, and then dinner was ready, and Skelton went out with Mrs. Shapleigh on his arm.
Sylvia, from motives of prudence, placed herself next him on the other side. Having a humorous knack, Sylvia could very often turn Mrs. Shapleigh’s speeches into the safe channel of a joke. At the other end of the table old Tom had beside him Mrs. Blair, who was quite a pet of his. Skelton, with infinite tact, talked as if he had been one of them for the last fifteen years, instead of having been indulging in all sorts of startling adventures abroad while they were vegetating in the country.
The conversation pretty soon got on racing, for the Campdown course was to them their opera, drive, lecture, concert—everything, in short, except the church. Conyers was quite out of this conversation, and was used to being so. Bulstrode likewise found it a bore, and took refuge in gulping down glass after glass of sherry, port, madeira, champagne—any and every thing that came to hand. But he did not enjoy it, although old Tom’s cellar was not to be despised. He feared and revered a good woman, and the presence of the ladies took all the taste out of the wine and utterly disconcerted him. He had often said to Skelton: “Curse me, if I can drink comfortably in the presence of women. They are a standing rebuke to such old ruffians as I.� Skelton, however, entered into the spirit of the racing talk as if it were of the greatest possible moment. But it was a very delicate one in Blair’s presence. Too often had Skelton’s colours—black and yellow—come in ahead of Blair’s blue jackets and white caps. Skelton and Blair, though, each showed a gentlemanly obliviousness of all this.
Skelton, however, chose to admire a certain colt of old Tom Shapleigh’s in a way that made Blair prick up his ears.
“I was walking across your pasture the other day—trespassing, in fact, as I have half forgotten my own land—when I saw that black horse of yours—�
“Alabaster!� cried Sylvia. “He is so black that I could not find a name black enough for him, so I went by the rule of contrary. He is to be my riding horse.�
“Yes,� groaned old Tom ruefully, “Sylvia says she will have him. He isn’t a full thoroughbred, but he has some good blood in him, and I wanted to sell him to somebody, like our friend Blair here, who would find out how much speed there is in him, for he has it unquestionably. But he pleases my girl, and she proposes to keep me out of a snug sum of money in order that she may have a fine black horse to ride. Zounds! Skelton, I’m the most petticoat-ridden man in this county.�