“What is that, Mr. Shapleigh?�
“The best they can.�
“Now, Mr. Shapleigh, why will you say such senseless things? Of course, there’s nothing for us to do—nothing; and, although Richard Skelton is the greatest match in the county, even if he does have to give up his wife’s money, yet there are drawbacks to him. You told me yourself he didn’t believe in the devil.�
“Well, he will if he ever gets married,� responded old Tom, with an enormous wink.
The giving of a ball such as Skelton designed was in those days an undertaking little short of a crusade in the Middle Ages. A sailing vessel had to be sent to Baltimore for the supper, musicians, decorations, and everything the plantation did not supply; and it might return in one week, and it might return in two weeks, and it might never return at all. Sylvia Shapleigh hypocritically made light of these difficulties, and handsome cards were sent out to the whole county, including the Blairs. By some sort of hocus-pocus, Sylvia and Lewis obtained the privilege of addressing the invitations, so fearful were they of leaving Skelton a loophole of escape. It was done one June morning in the summerhouse on the bridge—Skelton sitting back smiling, while Sylvia and Lewis alternately conspired and squabbled. Skelton had a way of looking at Sylvia that always agitated her, although she thought she gave no sign of it. She had by this time acknowledged to herself that there were only two places in the world for her—the one where Skelton was, and the other where he was not. She had not, with all her native acuteness, the slightest idea what Skelton felt for her. True, he had a manner of paying her small attentions and compliments, insignificant in themselves, but which he invested with a deep and peculiar meaning. On this very morning, as she and Lewis chattered, Skelton sat looking at her with an expression of enjoyment, as if her mere presence and talk gave him exquisite pleasure. It did give him pleasure to see how much he dominated her; it was a royal sort of overbearing, a refined and subtle tyranny, that gratified his secret inordinate pride.
Sylvia confided in him that she was to have a new white-lutestring gown, and Mrs. Shapleigh had ordered a turban with a bird of paradise on it for the occasion. Nothing could exceed Sylvia’s interest and delight, except Lewis’s.
Bulstrode locked and barred himself in his room when Bridges, the functionary who was to arrange the ball, arrived from Baltimore. Skelton took refuge in the library, which was the one spot in the house upon which Bridges dare not lay his sacrilegious hands. But even the fastidious and scholarly Skelton could not wholly escape the domestic hullabaloo of a ball in the country. Lewis Pryor, at first delighted, soon found that if he showed his nose outside of the library he was pounced upon by Bridges—a saturnine-looking person, who had exchanged the calling of an undertaker for that of a caterer—and sent on an errand of some sort. Lewis, who was not used to this sort of thing, would have promptly resented it, except that it was for the great, the grand, the wonderful ball. Why he should be so anxious about the ball, he did not know; there was nobody to take any notice of him; but still, he wanted it, and Sylvia had promised to dance the first quadrille with him. This invitation was given far in advance, with a view of out-generalling Skelton.
Bob Skinny’s disgust was extreme. The idea that he was to be superseded by a person of such low origin and inferior talents as Bridges was exasperating to the last degree.
“Dat ar owdacious Bridges man,� he complained to Lewis, “he think he know ev’ything. He come a-countin’ my spoons an’ forks, an’ he say, ‘How many spoons an’ forks has you got?’ An’ I say, ‘Millions on ’em—millions on ’em; de Skeltons allers had more’n anybody in de worl’. I nuvver count all on ’em, myse’f.’ He ain’ nuvver been to furrin parts; an’ when I ax him, jist to discomfuse him, ef he couldn’ play on de fluke er nuttin’, he say he ain’ got no time fer sich conjurements. I tole him, maybe he so us’ ter settin’ up wid dade folks an’ undertakin’ dat he dunno nuttin’ ’bout a party; an’ he went an’ tole Mr. Skelton. But Mr. Skelton, he shet him up. He say, ‘Well, Bridges, I daresay you’ll have to put up wid Bob Skinny. De wuffless rascal done had he way fur so long dat nobody now kin hardly conflagrate him.’ So now, sence de Bridges man know my corndition, I jes’ walks out in de g’yardin, a-playin’ my fluke, an’ when he sen’ fur me, I tell him ter go long—I doan’ do no wuk dese days; ’tain’t none o’ my ball—’tis his’n—an’ ter be sho’ an’ doan’ make no mistake dat it is a funeral.�
As this was literally true, war to the knife was inaugurated between Bridges and Bob Skinny. Bob consoled himself, though, by promising that, when the musicians arrived, “I gwi’ jine ’em, an’ take my place ’longside de hade man, an’ gwi’ show ’em how I play de fluke fo’ de Duke o’ Wellingcome, an’ de Prince Rejump, and Napoleon Bonyparte, an’ all dem high-flyers dat wuz allus arter Mr. Skelton ter sell me ter ’em when we wuz ’broad.�