“I wish so, too,� devoutly added Sylvia.
“I’m sure I’m sorry Mr. Blair lost his money; but you know, Mr. Shapleigh, poisoning horses is a great sin,� remarked Mrs. Shapleigh.
Old Tom reformed so far as to again attend the vestry meetings, and to lower his voice while he talked horse to his fellow-vestrymen.
The consideration with which Skelton and Bulstrode treated the poor harassed clergyman sensibly improved his relations with the congregation, which did not like him any better, but who treated him more respectfully. But they were all just as fond of morality and shy of religion as ever, except Sylvia Shapleigh. She and Conyers occasionally talked together on the great subject, but neither could enlighten the other. They were like two travellers meeting in the desert without map or compass—they could only tell of their loneliness, their struggles, their terrible ignorance of which way lay the road to light.
Bulstrode, upon whose movements Skelton never attempted to place any restrictions, went over to Newington occasionally, and was nearly broken-hearted by all he saw. He came back, and his mind dwelt constantly on Mrs. Blair and her troubles. He began to long that he might tell her not to despair—that there was still a great chance in store for her—that one day she, or perhaps her children after her, might have a fortune that would make them the richest people in the county; for Bulstrode had spoken truly when he said that he had very grave doubts whether Skelton himself could unravel the web he had so carefully woven about Lewis Pryor’s identity. And his object in so doing—to deprive the Blairs of what might come to them, by an extraordinary conjunction of circumstances—was of itself open to suspicion. Bulstrode knew that in England the Blairs’ expectations, even though saddled with uncertainties, would be worth something in ready money, where ready money was plentiful; but in this new country, where money was the dearest and scarcest of all products, he doubted if a penny could be realised upon even a very great fortune in perspective. He thought over these things until his brain was nearly addled.
One night in June, while Hilary was still ill, and the Blairs were liable to be dispossessed at any moment, Bulstrode went over to Newington. It had lately stormed, and the warm night air was full of the fragrance of the summer rain. The dripping trees along the road were odorous, and the wild honeysuckle and the great magnolia blossoms were lavish of perfume. The river and all the homesteads were perfectly still; and the only sound, as Bulstrode walked up the weedy drive to the Newington house, was the occasionally monotonous cry of a night bird or the soft flutter of bats’ wings through the darkness.
Mrs. Blair was sitting in the dimly lighted drawing-room with one of Scott’s novels on her lap. She heard Bulstrode’s step on the porch, and rose to meet him as he entered the room. She looked pale and depressed.
“Ah, romance, romance,� said Bulstrode, picking up the book. “You dear, sweet, innocent-minded creatures live on it.�
“Yes,� answered Mrs. Blair, smiling a little. “It helps us over the stony part of the road. I have been with my boy all day, and I found I wanted a tonic for my mind; so I took up this book, and actually forgot my poor Hilary for a few moments.�
“Is the boy improving, ma’am?�