And so poor Lewis, who often felt and said sadly that he had no one to love him, was fondled adoringly by the last person in the world that he would have expected.
Skelton shut and locked the library door, and, tenderly placing the boy’s head in a more comfortable position, sat down in a great chair and watched him. He could not at that moment bear to have Lewis out of his sight. Yes, the time had now come that he could tell him what had burned within him for so long. The boy was in himself so graceful, so gifted, there was so much to give him, that the foolish world would be compelled to court him and to forget that stain upon him. Skelton said to himself that, had he the choice of every quality a boy should have, he would have chosen just such a mind and character as Lewis had. He was so thoroughly well balanced; he had a fine and vigorous mind, high up in the scale of talent, but far removed from the abnormal quality of genius; there would be for him no stupendous infantile performances to haunt the whole of his future life, no overweighting of any one faculty to the disproportion of the rest. And then, he had an eaglet’s spirit. Skelton smiled when he remembered that no human being had ever so stood upon punctilio with him as this little black-eyed boy. He had, too, an exquisite common sense, which enabled him to submit readily to proper authority; he was obedient enough to Bulstrode. And then, he had so much pride that he could never be vain; and he had naturally the most modest and graceful little air in the world. Ah, to think that with such a boy the Blairs should dream that heaven and earth would not be moved to see him righted! And, since the boy was the instrument to defeat the Blairs, there was no reason that Skelton should not follow up that fancy for Sylvia Shapleigh. On the whole, he could part with the money with an excellent grace to Lewis, and he would still be rich, according to the standard of the people about him. Sylvia would forgive Lewis’s existence. Skelton was no mean judge of women, and he knew instinctively that Sylvia Shapleigh would be the most forgiving woman in the world for what had happened in the past, and the most unforgiving one of any future disloyalty. He even smiled to himself when he imagined the discomfiture of the Blairs. He would give them no warning; and he felt perfectly certain that Blair would not avail himself of that suggestion made to Mrs. Blair to ride over to Deerchase and see for himself. And then, if Sylvia would marry him, imagine the excitement of the Blairs, the fierce delight, and then the chagrin, the disappointment of finding out that Lewis Pryor was to step in and get all that they had looked upon as theirs. Skelton even began to see that possibly this forcing a decision upon him was not half a bad thing. He had been haunted for some months by Sylvia Shapleigh’s wit and charm; her beauty, he rightly thought, was overestimated, but her power to please was not esteemed half enough. He had begun lately for the first time to look forward apprehensively to old age. He sometimes fancied himself sitting alone in his latter days at his solitary hearth, and the thought was hateful to him. He realised well enough that only a woman in a thousand could make him happy, but Sylvia Shapleigh, he began to feel, was the woman. And, considering the extreme affection he felt for Lewis, it was not unlikely—here Skelton laughed to himself—that he was by nature a domestic character. He began to fancy life at Deerchase with Sylvia, and became quite fascinated with the picture drawn by his own imagination. She was a woman well calculated to gratify any man’s pride, and deep down in his own heart Skelton knew that was the great thing with him. And she had a heart—in fact, Skelton would have been a little afraid of a creature with so much feeling if she had not had likewise a fine understanding. And if that one boy of his gave him such intense happiness, even with all the wrath and humiliation that had been brought upon him thereby, what could he not feel for other children in whose existence there was no shame? And then, the thought of a lonely and unloved old age became doubly hateful to him. Until lately he had not really been able to persuade himself that he must bear the common fate; that he, Richard Skelton, must some day grow old, infirm, dependent. Seeing, though, that youth had departed in spite of him, he began to fear that old age might, after all, come upon him. But growing old soothed by Sylvia’s charming companionship and tender ministrations, and with new ties, new emotions, new pleasures, was not terrifying to him. He revolved these things in his mind, occasionally looking fondly at the sleeping boy, who was indeed all that Skelton said he was. Skelton had no idea of falling asleep, but gradually a delicious languor stole on him. How merrily the blackbirds were singing outside, and the sparrows chirped and chattered under the eaves! Afar off he heard in the stillness of the summer morning the tinkling of the bells as the cows were being driven to the pasture, then all the sweet country sounds melted away into golden silence, and he slept.
CHAPTER XVII.
It was well on towards twelve o’clock before either Skelton or Lewis awaked. The candles had long since burnt out, and the great, square, sombre room was quite dark. Since the early morning the sky had become overcast, and a steady, cold rain was falling outside. The penetrating damp air chilled Skelton to the bone, and he waked with an uncomfortable start. At the very same instant, Lewis, lying on the sofa, also roused, and both pairs of eyes, so strangely alike, were fixed on each other.
Skelton was still under the spell of that burst of parental passion that had overcome him the night before. His sleep had been full of dreams of the boy, and when he waked and saw Lewis’s black eyes gazing with sleepy wonder into his own, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
There was always something compelling in Skelton’s glance, but the affectionate expression that gave his eyes a velvety softness, like a woman’s, was altogether new to Lewis Pryor. It exercised a certain magnetism over him, and he felt his own gaze fixed on Skelton’s by a power he could not understand. He lay there for some minutes under the fascination of Skelton’s eyes, with a half-sleepy curiosity; then he rolled off the sofa, and, still obeying a new and strange impulse, went up to him. As Lewis stood looking down upon the man that had never in all those years shown him the slightest mark of personal fondness, some emotion novel and inscrutable and overpoweringly sweet seemed to wake within his boyish heart. He felt instinctively the forging of a new bond, but it was all misty and uncertain to his mind. The waking in the strange room, instead of his own little cosy bedroom, with Bob Skinny shaking him and pleading with him “to git up, fur de Lord’s sake, Marse Lewis�—the rising ready dressed, the finding of Skelton looking at him with that expression of passionate tenderness, was like a dream to him. Skelton put out his hand—his impulse was to open his arms and strain the boy to his breast—and said:
“Lewis, have you slept well?�
“Yes, sir,� after a pause answered Lewis.
“So have I,� said Skelton, “although I did not mean to sleep when I threw myself in this chair. But you should sleep well and peacefully, my boy. Tell me,� he continued, holding the boy’s hand in his strong yet gentle clasp, “tell me, have I, in all these years that we have lived together, have I ever spoken unkindly to you?�
Lewis thought for a moment gravely, bringing his narrow black brows together.