Skelton sat on the porch, or walked about it, far into the night, until his rage had cooled off. He had been subject to those tempests of still and almost silent passion all his life, and a fit of it invariably left him profoundly sad. The injustice to Lewis was inexpressibly hard to bear. He had all his life enjoyed so much power, prestige, and distinction, that the slightest contradiction was infinitely galling to him. One thing he had fully determined: the Blairs should not get that money. Rather would he proclaim Lewis’s birth to the world. But with a thrill of pride, as well as pain, he realised that it would cruelly distress the boy. Skelton knew Lewis’s disposition perfectly, and he knew the pride, the delicacy, the self-respect, that were already visible and would grow with the boy’s growth. He felt convinced that Lewis would never willingly barter what he supposed to be his respectable parentage for all the money in the world. And what would be the boy’s feelings towards him? Would not Lewis bear him a life-long hatred? And that suggestion which Bulstrode had thrown out about the difficulty of unravelling the story of Lewis’s birth, which Skelton had constructed with so much ingenuity, yes—it must be done in his lifetime; he would not trust anything to chance. The game was up, as far as the Blairs were concerned. And then he might, if he chose, marry Sylvia Shapleigh. She would perhaps awake his tired heart, for he had gone through with some experiences that had left weariness and cynical disgust behind them. But that the Blairs should ever have what might be Lewis’s, that they should profit by those fools of lawyers in England—Skelton almost swore aloud at the bare idea.
He revolved these things in his mind as he sat perfectly still in the corner of the porch after his restlessness had departed.
The moon rose late, but the round silver disc had grown bright before he stirred. He waked Bob Skinny, sleeping soundly on the back porch, to shut up the house, and went upstairs to his own rooms. As he passed through the upper hall he saw, to his surprise, Lewis Pryor sitting in the deep window seat, upon which the moonlight streamed.
“You here?� asked Skelton, surprised, yet in his usual kindly voice.
“Yes,� answered Lewis, perfectly wide awake, and looking somberly at Skelton in the ghostly light. “I couldn’t sleep for thinking of Mrs. Blair. I must win that race, and yet, if I do she will be unhappy, and that makes me unhappy. I wish we had never thought about the race, Mr. Skelton.�
“Perhaps so,� said Skelton lightly; “but remember, when you are riding a race you are representing a great many persons. If you win the race, Mr. Blair will have lost some money; and if Hilary Blair wins, a great many persons who have backed you will lose money. It is the most dishonourable thing on earth to willfully lose a race.�
Lewis sighed, and understood very well.
“Come,� said Skelton good-naturedly, “it is time for youngsters like you to be in bed. It is nearly one o’clock.�
Lewis crept off quite dolefully to his bed, while Skelton, sad at heart, remained standing before the open window, gazing at the glittering moon that silvered the lovely, peaceful, and tender landscape.