“Why so early?� asked Skelton graciously. “Since you have done me the honour of coming, why not do me the pleasure of staying?�
“Because,� said Conyers, who spoke the truth in season and out of season, “it is against my conscience to stay where betting is going on. Forgive me, if I apparently commit a breach of hospitality, but consider, Mr. Skelton, you will one day be held accountable for the iniquity that is now taking place under your roof.�
“I accept the responsibility,� answered Skelton, with unabated politeness, “and I regret your decision. You are always welcome at Deerchase, Mr. Conyers, and you have the most perfect liberty of expressing your opinions.�
“Thank you,� replied poor Conyers, with tears in his eyes. “If everybody was as tolerant as you, my ministry would be easier than it is.�
As Conyers went one way, Skelton went off another, thinking to himself, “Was ever a man so openly defied as I?� True it was he could be openly defied, and everybody had full liberty, until Skelton’s own orbit was crossed: then there was no liberty.
Old Tom Shapleigh swung, like a pendulum, between cards and dancing. He danced with all the vigor of colonial days, and his small, high-bred feet, cased in white-silk stockings and low shoes, with silver buckles, twinkled like a ballet dancer’s as he cut the pigeon wing. Mrs. Blair, who danced sedately and gracefully, was his partner. Bob Skinny, his head thrown back and wearing an expression of ecstatic delight, watched the dancers from a corner, occasionally waving his “fluke� to mark the time. However, by some occult means he had become acquainted with the champagne punch, and when Skelton’s back was turned, Bob proceeded to cut the pigeon wing too, and to back-step and double-shuffle with the most surprising agility. In the midst of this performance, though, a hint of Skelton’s approach being given, Bob instantly assumed the most rigid and dignified pose imaginable.
Lewis, after dancing once with Sylvia and once with Mrs. Blair, who spoke to him kindly, wandered about, lonely enough. The people did not relax in the least their aloofness towards him. He felt inexpressibly sad and forlorn, and at this ball, too, which, as a matter of fact, might never have been given but for him. But the beauty and splendour of the scene dazzled him. He could not tear himself away.
Something of the same spell was upon Bulstrode. He knew little and cared less for social life; he was one of those unfortunates who have but one single, solitary source of enjoyment—the purely intellectual; but the lights, the music, the gaiety, the festal air, had its effect even on his sluggish temperament. He sat in a corner of the drawing-room, his bulky, awkward figure filling up a great chair, and Lewis came and leaned silently upon the back of it. In some way, master and pupil felt strange to the rest of the world that night, and drawn together.
“Mr. Bulstrode,� said Lewis presently, “I always feel alone in a crowd. Don’t you?�
“Yes, boy,� answered Bulstrode, glancing about him with an odd look of dejection. “And in a crowd of merry-makers my old heart grows chill with loneliness.�