Part 3, Chapter VIII.

Part 3, Chapter VIII.A Forlorn Hope.“Come to me if you have any sympathy for my piteous case!”Sympathy! In his bitter state of self-reproach, he would have done anything to serve her. He felt that he could forgive Cyril Mallow, aid him in any way, even to compromising himself by helping him to escape. But he shrank from meeting Sage: he felt that he could not meet her reproachful eyes.“You will come and see her?” said the Churchwarden. “Ah, my lad, if we could have looked into the future!”His voice shook a little as he spoke, but he seemed to nerve himself, and said again—“You will come and see her?”“If it will be any good. Yes,” said Luke, slowly; and they proceeded together to the hotel, where Sage was staying with her uncle, in one of the streets leading out of the Strand.The old Rector was so broken of spirit that he allowed Portlock to lead him like a child, and, satisfied with the assurance that to-morrow he should return home, he sat down in the room set apart, with old Michael Ross, while, in obedience to a sign from Portlock, Luke followed him to a room a few doors away.The place was almost in shadow, for the gas had not been lit, and as Luke entered, with his heart beating fast, a dark figure rose from an easy-chair by the fire, and tottered towards the old farmer, evidently not seeing Luke, who stayed back just within the door.“He would not come,” she cried. “It was cruel of him. I thought he had a nobler heart, and in all these years would have forgiven me at last.”“Mr Ross is here, Sage,” said Portlock, rather sternly. “Shall I leave you to speak to him alone?”“No, no,” she cried in a hoarse whisper, instead of her former high-pitched querulous tone. “I cannot—I dare not speak to him alone.”“If forgiveness is needed for the past, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, in a grave, calm voice, for he had now mastered his emotion, “you have mine freely given, and with it my true sympathy for your position.”She burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which lasted some minutes, during which she stood hiding her face on her uncle’s breast; then, recovering herself, she hastily wiped away her tears, and drawing herself up, stood holding out her hand for Luke to take.He hesitated for a moment, and then, stepping forward, took it and raised it to his lips, just touching it with grave respect, and then letting it fall.“I wished to say to you, Mr Ross, let the past be as it were dead, all save our boy and girlhood’s days.”“It shall be as you wish,” he said, softly.“You do not bear malice against me?”“None whatever; but is not this better left, Mrs Mallow? Why should we refer so to the past?”“Because,” she said, “I am so alone now, so wanting in help. You have become a great and famous man, whose word is listened to with respect and awe.”“This is folly,” he said.“Folly? Did I not see judge, jury, counsellors hanging upon your lips? did not your words condemn my poor husband this dreadful day?”“I am afraid, Mrs Mallow,” he said, sadly, “that it needed no advocate’s words to condemn your unhappy husband. I would gladly have avoided the task that was, to me, a terrible one; but my word was passed, as a professional man, before I knew whom I had to prosecute. Speaking now, solely from my knowledge of such matters, I am obliged to tell you that nothing could have saved him.”“Hush! Pray do not speak to me like that,” she cried. “He is my husband. I cannot—I will not think that he could do so great a wrong.”“Far be it from me,” said Luke, gently, “to try and persuade you to think ill of him. I should think ill of you, Sage,” he added, very softly, “if you fell away from your husband in his sore distress.”“Heaven bless you for those words, Luke Ross!” she cried, as she caught one of his hands and kissed it. “God will reward you for what you have done in coming to me now, wretched woman that I am, a miserable convict’s wife; but you will help me, will you not?”“In any way,” he said, earnestly.She uttered a low sigh of relief, and stood with one hand pressed upon her side, the other upon her brow, as if thinking; while Portlock sat down by the fire, and, resting his elbows upon his knees, gazed thoughtfully at the warm glow, but intent the while upon what was going on.“My uncle is very good to me,” said Sage, at length, “and is ready to find me what money is required for the object I have in hand; but I can only obtain paid service, whereas I want the help of one who will work for me as a friend.”She looked at him to see the effect of her words.Luke bowed his head sadly.“I want one who, for the sake of the past,” she continued, speaking excitedly, “and on account of his generous forgiveness of my cruelty and want of faith, will strain every nerve in my behalf.”She paused again, unable to continue, though fighting vainly to find words.“I think I understand you,” he replied. “You want me, on the strength of the legal knowledge you credit me with, to make some new effort on your husband’s behalf?”“It is like madness to ask it,” she said, “and I tremble as I say the words to you whom he so injured; but, Luke, have pity on me. He is my husband,” she cried, piteously, as she wrung her hands, and then, before he could stay her, flung herself upon the carpet, and clung to his knees. “He is the father of my innocent children; for God’s sake try and save him from this cruel fate.”He remained silent, gazing down at the prostrate figure, as, after an effort or two on his part to raise her, she refused to quit her grovelling attitude, save only to shrink lower, and lay her cheek against his feet.“Mrs Mallow?” he said, at last.“No, no!” she cried, passionately. “Call me Sage again. You have forgiven the past.”“Sage Mallow!” he said, in a low, measured voice.“You are going to retract your words,” she cried, frantically, as she started up. “You are going to draw back.”“I have promised you,” he said, quietly, “and my hands, my thoughts, all I possess, are at your service.”“And you will save him?” she cried, joyously.He remained silent.“You will work for him—you will forgive him, and bring him back to me?” she cried, piteously. “Luke—Luke Ross—you will save him from this fate?”“I did not seek this interview,” he said, sadly. “Mrs Mallow, I would have spared you this.”“What do you mean?” she cried. “Will you not try?”“It would be an act of cruelty,” replied Luke, “to attempt to buoy you up with promises that must crumble to the earth.”“You will not try,” she cried, passionately. “I will try. I will try every plan I can think of to obtain your husband’s release, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, gravely. “Or get him a new trial?”“Such a thing is impossible. The most we dare hope for would be some slight shortening of his sentence; but candour compels me to say that nothing I can do will be of the slightest avail after such a trial as Cyril Mallow has had.”Just then the old Churchwarden had thoughtfully raised the poker and broken a lump of coal, with the result that the confined gas burst into a bright light, filling the room with its cheerful glow, and Luke saw that Sage was looking at him with flashing eyes, and a couple of scarlet patches were burning in her cheeks.She raised one hand slowly, and pointed to the door, speaking in a deep husky voice, full of suppressed passion.“And I believed in you,” she said, wildly, “I thought you would be my friend. I said to myself, Luke Ross is true and noble, and good, and he loved me very dearly, when I was too weak and foolish to realise the value of this love. I said I would beg of you to come to me and help me in my sore distress, that I would humble myself to you, and that in the nobleness of your heart you would forgive the past.”“As I have forgiven it, heaven knows,” he said, gravely.“And then,” she cried, excitedly, “you come with your lips full of promises, your heart full of gall, ready to cheer me with words of hope, but only to fall away and leave me in despair.”“Do not misjudge me,” he said, appealingly.“Misjudge you!” she cried, with bitter contempt. “How could I misjudge such a man as you? I see now how false you can be. I see how you laid calmly in wait all these years that you might have revenge. You hurled my poor husband to the earth that afternoon in the lane; now you have crushed him down beneath your heel.”“Can you not be just?” he said.“Just?” she cried, “to you? I thought to teach my children to bless and reverence your name as that of the man who had saved their father. I taught them to pray for you with their innocent little lips, and I sent to you and humbled myself to ask you to defend my husband in his sore need, but you refused—refused forsooth, because you were gloating over the opportunity you would have for revenge. The trial came, he was condemned through your words, but I still believed you honest, and trusted in you for help. I sent to you once again to pray you to try and restore my husband to me, but you coldly refuse, while your lips are yet hot with promises and lies.”“Sage,” he cried, passionately, “you tear my heart.”“I would tear it,” she cried, fiercely, in her excitement, “coward that you are—cruel coward, full of deceit and revenge. Go: leave me, let me never see you again, for I could not look upon you without loathing, and I shudder now to think that I have ever touched your hands.”“Sage, my girl, Sage!” said the Churchwarden, as he rose and took her hands, “this is madness, and to-morrow you will be sorry for what you have said.”“Uncle,” she cried wildly, as she clung to him, “I cannot bear his presence here. Send him from me, or I shall die.”She hid her face upon her uncle’s shoulder, and he held out his right hand, and grasped that of Luke.“God bless you, my boy!” he said, with trembling voice. “She is beside herself with grief, and knows not what she says.”Luke returned the warm pressure of the old farmer’s hand, and would have gone, but Portlock held it still.“I thank you for coming, Luke Ross,” he said; “and I know you to be just and true. Would to heaven I had never made that great mistake!”He said no more, but loosed their visitors hand, Luke standing gazing sadly at the sobbing woman for a few moments, and then leaving the room to seek old Michael, with whom he was soon on his way back to chambers, faint and sick at heart.Hardly had the sound of his footsteps passed from the stairs than, with a wild cry, Sage threw herself upon her knees, sobbing wildly.“Heaven forgive me!” she cried. “What have I said? Uncle, uncle, a lying spirit has entered into my heart, making me revile him as I have—Luke—so generous, and good, and true.”

“Come to me if you have any sympathy for my piteous case!”

Sympathy! In his bitter state of self-reproach, he would have done anything to serve her. He felt that he could forgive Cyril Mallow, aid him in any way, even to compromising himself by helping him to escape. But he shrank from meeting Sage: he felt that he could not meet her reproachful eyes.

“You will come and see her?” said the Churchwarden. “Ah, my lad, if we could have looked into the future!”

His voice shook a little as he spoke, but he seemed to nerve himself, and said again—“You will come and see her?”

“If it will be any good. Yes,” said Luke, slowly; and they proceeded together to the hotel, where Sage was staying with her uncle, in one of the streets leading out of the Strand.

The old Rector was so broken of spirit that he allowed Portlock to lead him like a child, and, satisfied with the assurance that to-morrow he should return home, he sat down in the room set apart, with old Michael Ross, while, in obedience to a sign from Portlock, Luke followed him to a room a few doors away.

The place was almost in shadow, for the gas had not been lit, and as Luke entered, with his heart beating fast, a dark figure rose from an easy-chair by the fire, and tottered towards the old farmer, evidently not seeing Luke, who stayed back just within the door.

“He would not come,” she cried. “It was cruel of him. I thought he had a nobler heart, and in all these years would have forgiven me at last.”

“Mr Ross is here, Sage,” said Portlock, rather sternly. “Shall I leave you to speak to him alone?”

“No, no,” she cried in a hoarse whisper, instead of her former high-pitched querulous tone. “I cannot—I dare not speak to him alone.”

“If forgiveness is needed for the past, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, in a grave, calm voice, for he had now mastered his emotion, “you have mine freely given, and with it my true sympathy for your position.”

She burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which lasted some minutes, during which she stood hiding her face on her uncle’s breast; then, recovering herself, she hastily wiped away her tears, and drawing herself up, stood holding out her hand for Luke to take.

He hesitated for a moment, and then, stepping forward, took it and raised it to his lips, just touching it with grave respect, and then letting it fall.

“I wished to say to you, Mr Ross, let the past be as it were dead, all save our boy and girlhood’s days.”

“It shall be as you wish,” he said, softly.

“You do not bear malice against me?”

“None whatever; but is not this better left, Mrs Mallow? Why should we refer so to the past?”

“Because,” she said, “I am so alone now, so wanting in help. You have become a great and famous man, whose word is listened to with respect and awe.”

“This is folly,” he said.

“Folly? Did I not see judge, jury, counsellors hanging upon your lips? did not your words condemn my poor husband this dreadful day?”

“I am afraid, Mrs Mallow,” he said, sadly, “that it needed no advocate’s words to condemn your unhappy husband. I would gladly have avoided the task that was, to me, a terrible one; but my word was passed, as a professional man, before I knew whom I had to prosecute. Speaking now, solely from my knowledge of such matters, I am obliged to tell you that nothing could have saved him.”

“Hush! Pray do not speak to me like that,” she cried. “He is my husband. I cannot—I will not think that he could do so great a wrong.”

“Far be it from me,” said Luke, gently, “to try and persuade you to think ill of him. I should think ill of you, Sage,” he added, very softly, “if you fell away from your husband in his sore distress.”

“Heaven bless you for those words, Luke Ross!” she cried, as she caught one of his hands and kissed it. “God will reward you for what you have done in coming to me now, wretched woman that I am, a miserable convict’s wife; but you will help me, will you not?”

“In any way,” he said, earnestly.

She uttered a low sigh of relief, and stood with one hand pressed upon her side, the other upon her brow, as if thinking; while Portlock sat down by the fire, and, resting his elbows upon his knees, gazed thoughtfully at the warm glow, but intent the while upon what was going on.

“My uncle is very good to me,” said Sage, at length, “and is ready to find me what money is required for the object I have in hand; but I can only obtain paid service, whereas I want the help of one who will work for me as a friend.”

She looked at him to see the effect of her words.

Luke bowed his head sadly.

“I want one who, for the sake of the past,” she continued, speaking excitedly, “and on account of his generous forgiveness of my cruelty and want of faith, will strain every nerve in my behalf.”

She paused again, unable to continue, though fighting vainly to find words.

“I think I understand you,” he replied. “You want me, on the strength of the legal knowledge you credit me with, to make some new effort on your husband’s behalf?”

“It is like madness to ask it,” she said, “and I tremble as I say the words to you whom he so injured; but, Luke, have pity on me. He is my husband,” she cried, piteously, as she wrung her hands, and then, before he could stay her, flung herself upon the carpet, and clung to his knees. “He is the father of my innocent children; for God’s sake try and save him from this cruel fate.”

He remained silent, gazing down at the prostrate figure, as, after an effort or two on his part to raise her, she refused to quit her grovelling attitude, save only to shrink lower, and lay her cheek against his feet.

“Mrs Mallow?” he said, at last.

“No, no!” she cried, passionately. “Call me Sage again. You have forgiven the past.”

“Sage Mallow!” he said, in a low, measured voice.

“You are going to retract your words,” she cried, frantically, as she started up. “You are going to draw back.”

“I have promised you,” he said, quietly, “and my hands, my thoughts, all I possess, are at your service.”

“And you will save him?” she cried, joyously.

He remained silent.

“You will work for him—you will forgive him, and bring him back to me?” she cried, piteously. “Luke—Luke Ross—you will save him from this fate?”

“I did not seek this interview,” he said, sadly. “Mrs Mallow, I would have spared you this.”

“What do you mean?” she cried. “Will you not try?”

“It would be an act of cruelty,” replied Luke, “to attempt to buoy you up with promises that must crumble to the earth.”

“You will not try,” she cried, passionately. “I will try. I will try every plan I can think of to obtain your husband’s release, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, gravely. “Or get him a new trial?”

“Such a thing is impossible. The most we dare hope for would be some slight shortening of his sentence; but candour compels me to say that nothing I can do will be of the slightest avail after such a trial as Cyril Mallow has had.”

Just then the old Churchwarden had thoughtfully raised the poker and broken a lump of coal, with the result that the confined gas burst into a bright light, filling the room with its cheerful glow, and Luke saw that Sage was looking at him with flashing eyes, and a couple of scarlet patches were burning in her cheeks.

She raised one hand slowly, and pointed to the door, speaking in a deep husky voice, full of suppressed passion.

“And I believed in you,” she said, wildly, “I thought you would be my friend. I said to myself, Luke Ross is true and noble, and good, and he loved me very dearly, when I was too weak and foolish to realise the value of this love. I said I would beg of you to come to me and help me in my sore distress, that I would humble myself to you, and that in the nobleness of your heart you would forgive the past.”

“As I have forgiven it, heaven knows,” he said, gravely.

“And then,” she cried, excitedly, “you come with your lips full of promises, your heart full of gall, ready to cheer me with words of hope, but only to fall away and leave me in despair.”

“Do not misjudge me,” he said, appealingly.

“Misjudge you!” she cried, with bitter contempt. “How could I misjudge such a man as you? I see now how false you can be. I see how you laid calmly in wait all these years that you might have revenge. You hurled my poor husband to the earth that afternoon in the lane; now you have crushed him down beneath your heel.”

“Can you not be just?” he said.

“Just?” she cried, “to you? I thought to teach my children to bless and reverence your name as that of the man who had saved their father. I taught them to pray for you with their innocent little lips, and I sent to you and humbled myself to ask you to defend my husband in his sore need, but you refused—refused forsooth, because you were gloating over the opportunity you would have for revenge. The trial came, he was condemned through your words, but I still believed you honest, and trusted in you for help. I sent to you once again to pray you to try and restore my husband to me, but you coldly refuse, while your lips are yet hot with promises and lies.”

“Sage,” he cried, passionately, “you tear my heart.”

“I would tear it,” she cried, fiercely, in her excitement, “coward that you are—cruel coward, full of deceit and revenge. Go: leave me, let me never see you again, for I could not look upon you without loathing, and I shudder now to think that I have ever touched your hands.”

“Sage, my girl, Sage!” said the Churchwarden, as he rose and took her hands, “this is madness, and to-morrow you will be sorry for what you have said.”

“Uncle,” she cried wildly, as she clung to him, “I cannot bear his presence here. Send him from me, or I shall die.”

She hid her face upon her uncle’s shoulder, and he held out his right hand, and grasped that of Luke.

“God bless you, my boy!” he said, with trembling voice. “She is beside herself with grief, and knows not what she says.”

Luke returned the warm pressure of the old farmer’s hand, and would have gone, but Portlock held it still.

“I thank you for coming, Luke Ross,” he said; “and I know you to be just and true. Would to heaven I had never made that great mistake!”

He said no more, but loosed their visitors hand, Luke standing gazing sadly at the sobbing woman for a few moments, and then leaving the room to seek old Michael, with whom he was soon on his way back to chambers, faint and sick at heart.

Hardly had the sound of his footsteps passed from the stairs than, with a wild cry, Sage threw herself upon her knees, sobbing wildly.

“Heaven forgive me!” she cried. “What have I said? Uncle, uncle, a lying spirit has entered into my heart, making me revile him as I have—Luke—so generous, and good, and true.”

Part 3, Chapter IX.Back Home.In obedience to his promise, Luke. Ross set earnestly to work to try and obtain an alleviation of the stern sentence passed upon Cyril Mallow.It was an exceedingly awkward task to come from the prosecuting counsel, but Luke did not shrink, striving with all his might, offending several people high in position by his perseverance, and doing himself no little injury; but he strove on, with the inevitable result that his application came back from the Home Office with the information that the Right Honourable the Secretary of State saw nothing in the sentence to make him interfere with the just course of the law, adding, moreover, his opinion that it was a very proper punishment for one whose education and antecedents should have guided him to a better course.These documents were sent by Luke, without word of comment, to Kilby Farm, where he knew from his father that Sage was residing with her children; and by return of post came a very brief letter from the widowed wife, thanking him for what he had done, and ending with the hope that he would forgive the words uttered during an agony of soul that without some utterance would have driven the speaker mad.“She did not mean it,” said Luke, sadly, as he carefully folded and put away the letter. “She knows me better in her heart.”Then time went on, till a year had passed. Luke had not been near Lawford, for the place, in spite of its being the home of his birth, was too full of sad memories to induce him to go down. Besides, there was the fact that Sage Mallow had, in defiance of looks askance from those who had known her in her earlier days, permanently taken up her residence there.“I’d like to hear any one say a slighting word to thee, my bairn,” said Portlock, fiercely. “It’s no fault of thine that thy husband got into trouble. I’d live here, if it was only out of defiance to the kind-hearted Christians, as they call themselves, who slight thee.”So Sage remained a fixture at the farm, settling down quite into her former life, but no longer with the light elasticity of step, and the rooms no more echoed with the ring of her musical voice. Time had given her an older and a sadder look, but her features had grown refined, and there was a ladylike mien in every movement that made her aunt gaze upon her with a kind of awe.“Let her come back to the old nest again, mother,” said Portlock. “There’s room enough for the lass, and as for the little ones—My word, mother, it’s almost like being grandfather and granny.”Many a heartache had Sage had about her dependent position, and the heavy losses that had occurred to her uncle in the money she and her husband had had; but Portlock, in his bluff way, made light of it.“I dare say I can make some more, my bairn, and it will do for these two young tyrants. Hang me, what a slave they do make of me, to be sure!”It was the faint wintry sunshine of Sage Mallow’s life to see the newly-born love of the old people for her children, whom they idolised, and great was the jealousy of Rue whenever she came across to Kilby. But it was no wonder, for they were as attractive in appearance as they were pretty in their ways. One was always out in the gig with the Churchwarden, while the other was seriously devoting herself to domestic duties and hindering Mrs Portlock, who bore the infliction with huge delight.“I never saw such bairns,” cried the old lady.“Nor anybody else,” said Portlock, proudly. “Let’s see, mother, there’s a year gone by out of the fourteen. Bless my soul, I wish it had been twenty-one instead.”“For shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock. “How can you!”“Well, all I can say is that it’s a blessing he was shut up where he could do no further mischief.”“But it’s so dreadful for the bairns.”“Tchah! not it. They can’t help it, bless ’em. See how they’ve improved since they have been down here.”“Well, yes, they have,” said Mrs Portlock, “and Sage’s a deal better.”“Better, poor lassie! I should think she is. Of course, she frets after him a bit now and then, and feels the disgrace a good deal, but, bless my soul, mother, she’s like a new woman compared to what she was. For my part, I hope they’ll never let him out again.”“For shame, Joseph!” said Mrs Portlock. “Mr Mallow was over here this morning.”“Was he? Ah, I’ll be bound to say he wanted to take the bairns over to the rectory.”“Yes, and he took them.”“Hah!” said the farmer, sharply. “I’m very sorry for the poor old lady, but I am glad that she is so ill that she can’t bear to have them much.”“What a shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock, indignantly. “How can you say such a cruel thing! Glad she is so ill!”“I didn’t mean I was glad she was ill,” said the Churchwarden, chuckling. “I meant I was glad she was too ill to have the bairns.”“But it sounds so dreadful.”“Let it. What do I care! I don’t want for us to be always squabbling over those children. They’re my Sage’s bairns, and consequently they’re ours.”“But they’re Cyril Mal—”“Tchah! Don’t mention his name,” cried the Churchwarden.“Fie, Joseph! you do make me jump so when you talk like that.”“Shouldn’t mention that fellow’s name then. I told you not.”“Well, then, they are Mr and Mrs Mallow’s children just as much as ours, Joseph,” said the old lady.“No they ain’t; they’re mine, and there’s an end of it. I say, though, old Michael Ross is ill.”“Ah! poor man. I’m sorry; but he’s very old, Joseph.”“Not he. Young man yet,” said the Churchwarden, who was getting touchy on the score of age. “I don’t call a man old this side of a hundred. Look at the old chaps in the Bible, as Sammy Warmoth used to say.”“Yes, Joseph, but they were great and good men.”“Oh, were they?” said the Churchwarden. “I don’t know so much about that. Some of ’em were; but others did things that the Lawford people wouldn’t stand if I were to try ’em on.”“But what is the matter with Michael Ross?”“Break up. I went in to see him, and the old man got me to write a letter to Luke, asking him to come down and see him.”“And did you, Joseph?”“Did I? Why, of course I did. Do you suppose I’ve got iron bowels, woman, and no compassion in me at all?”“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, sharply. “And do you think Luke Ross will come down?”“Of course he will.”“He hasn’t been down for a very long time now. I suppose he has grown to be such a great man that he is ashamed of poor old Lawford.”“Who’s talking nonsense now?” cried the Churchwarden. “Nice temptation there is for him to come down here, isn’t there? Bless the lad, I wonder he even cares to set foot in the place again.”“It would be unpleasant for him, I suppose, after all that has taken place. But you think he will come?”“Sure to. I told him it was urgent, and that I’d drive over to Morbro and meet the train, so as to save him time. He’s a good man, is Luke Ross, as old Michael said with tears in his eyes to-day, and he wants to see him badly.”“Poor old man!”“Tchah! don’t call him old,” cried the Churchwarden. Then calming down after a whiff or two of his pipe, “Luke Ross will be down here to-morrow afternoon as sure as a gun. Eh? Why, Sage, my gal, I didn’t see you there.”“Did—did I hear you aright, uncle?” she said, faintly. “Is old Mr Ross ill?”“Very ill, my dear,” said the Churchwarden, sternly, “and Luke Ross is coming down to see him, I should say.”

In obedience to his promise, Luke. Ross set earnestly to work to try and obtain an alleviation of the stern sentence passed upon Cyril Mallow.

It was an exceedingly awkward task to come from the prosecuting counsel, but Luke did not shrink, striving with all his might, offending several people high in position by his perseverance, and doing himself no little injury; but he strove on, with the inevitable result that his application came back from the Home Office with the information that the Right Honourable the Secretary of State saw nothing in the sentence to make him interfere with the just course of the law, adding, moreover, his opinion that it was a very proper punishment for one whose education and antecedents should have guided him to a better course.

These documents were sent by Luke, without word of comment, to Kilby Farm, where he knew from his father that Sage was residing with her children; and by return of post came a very brief letter from the widowed wife, thanking him for what he had done, and ending with the hope that he would forgive the words uttered during an agony of soul that without some utterance would have driven the speaker mad.

“She did not mean it,” said Luke, sadly, as he carefully folded and put away the letter. “She knows me better in her heart.”

Then time went on, till a year had passed. Luke had not been near Lawford, for the place, in spite of its being the home of his birth, was too full of sad memories to induce him to go down. Besides, there was the fact that Sage Mallow had, in defiance of looks askance from those who had known her in her earlier days, permanently taken up her residence there.

“I’d like to hear any one say a slighting word to thee, my bairn,” said Portlock, fiercely. “It’s no fault of thine that thy husband got into trouble. I’d live here, if it was only out of defiance to the kind-hearted Christians, as they call themselves, who slight thee.”

So Sage remained a fixture at the farm, settling down quite into her former life, but no longer with the light elasticity of step, and the rooms no more echoed with the ring of her musical voice. Time had given her an older and a sadder look, but her features had grown refined, and there was a ladylike mien in every movement that made her aunt gaze upon her with a kind of awe.

“Let her come back to the old nest again, mother,” said Portlock. “There’s room enough for the lass, and as for the little ones—My word, mother, it’s almost like being grandfather and granny.”

Many a heartache had Sage had about her dependent position, and the heavy losses that had occurred to her uncle in the money she and her husband had had; but Portlock, in his bluff way, made light of it.

“I dare say I can make some more, my bairn, and it will do for these two young tyrants. Hang me, what a slave they do make of me, to be sure!”

It was the faint wintry sunshine of Sage Mallow’s life to see the newly-born love of the old people for her children, whom they idolised, and great was the jealousy of Rue whenever she came across to Kilby. But it was no wonder, for they were as attractive in appearance as they were pretty in their ways. One was always out in the gig with the Churchwarden, while the other was seriously devoting herself to domestic duties and hindering Mrs Portlock, who bore the infliction with huge delight.

“I never saw such bairns,” cried the old lady.

“Nor anybody else,” said Portlock, proudly. “Let’s see, mother, there’s a year gone by out of the fourteen. Bless my soul, I wish it had been twenty-one instead.”

“For shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock. “How can you!”

“Well, all I can say is that it’s a blessing he was shut up where he could do no further mischief.”

“But it’s so dreadful for the bairns.”

“Tchah! not it. They can’t help it, bless ’em. See how they’ve improved since they have been down here.”

“Well, yes, they have,” said Mrs Portlock, “and Sage’s a deal better.”

“Better, poor lassie! I should think she is. Of course, she frets after him a bit now and then, and feels the disgrace a good deal, but, bless my soul, mother, she’s like a new woman compared to what she was. For my part, I hope they’ll never let him out again.”

“For shame, Joseph!” said Mrs Portlock. “Mr Mallow was over here this morning.”

“Was he? Ah, I’ll be bound to say he wanted to take the bairns over to the rectory.”

“Yes, and he took them.”

“Hah!” said the farmer, sharply. “I’m very sorry for the poor old lady, but I am glad that she is so ill that she can’t bear to have them much.”

“What a shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock, indignantly. “How can you say such a cruel thing! Glad she is so ill!”

“I didn’t mean I was glad she was ill,” said the Churchwarden, chuckling. “I meant I was glad she was too ill to have the bairns.”

“But it sounds so dreadful.”

“Let it. What do I care! I don’t want for us to be always squabbling over those children. They’re my Sage’s bairns, and consequently they’re ours.”

“But they’re Cyril Mal—”

“Tchah! Don’t mention his name,” cried the Churchwarden.

“Fie, Joseph! you do make me jump so when you talk like that.”

“Shouldn’t mention that fellow’s name then. I told you not.”

“Well, then, they are Mr and Mrs Mallow’s children just as much as ours, Joseph,” said the old lady.

“No they ain’t; they’re mine, and there’s an end of it. I say, though, old Michael Ross is ill.”

“Ah! poor man. I’m sorry; but he’s very old, Joseph.”

“Not he. Young man yet,” said the Churchwarden, who was getting touchy on the score of age. “I don’t call a man old this side of a hundred. Look at the old chaps in the Bible, as Sammy Warmoth used to say.”

“Yes, Joseph, but they were great and good men.”

“Oh, were they?” said the Churchwarden. “I don’t know so much about that. Some of ’em were; but others did things that the Lawford people wouldn’t stand if I were to try ’em on.”

“But what is the matter with Michael Ross?”

“Break up. I went in to see him, and the old man got me to write a letter to Luke, asking him to come down and see him.”

“And did you, Joseph?”

“Did I? Why, of course I did. Do you suppose I’ve got iron bowels, woman, and no compassion in me at all?”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, sharply. “And do you think Luke Ross will come down?”

“Of course he will.”

“He hasn’t been down for a very long time now. I suppose he has grown to be such a great man that he is ashamed of poor old Lawford.”

“Who’s talking nonsense now?” cried the Churchwarden. “Nice temptation there is for him to come down here, isn’t there? Bless the lad, I wonder he even cares to set foot in the place again.”

“It would be unpleasant for him, I suppose, after all that has taken place. But you think he will come?”

“Sure to. I told him it was urgent, and that I’d drive over to Morbro and meet the train, so as to save him time. He’s a good man, is Luke Ross, as old Michael said with tears in his eyes to-day, and he wants to see him badly.”

“Poor old man!”

“Tchah! don’t call him old,” cried the Churchwarden. Then calming down after a whiff or two of his pipe, “Luke Ross will be down here to-morrow afternoon as sure as a gun. Eh? Why, Sage, my gal, I didn’t see you there.”

“Did—did I hear you aright, uncle?” she said, faintly. “Is old Mr Ross ill?”

“Very ill, my dear,” said the Churchwarden, sternly, “and Luke Ross is coming down to see him, I should say.”

Part 3, Chapter X.Down at Lawford.Portlock was right in saying that Luke would be down the next day, for, reproaching himself for his neglect of his father, he hastened down to find him somewhat recovered from the sudden attack that had prostrated him, and the old man’s face lit up as his son entered the room.“Yes, my boy, better; yes, I’m better,” he said, feebly; “but it can’t be for long, Luke; it can’t be for long. I’m very, very glad you have come.”“But you are better,” said Luke; “and good spirits have so much to do with recovery.”“Well, yes, my boy, yes,” said the old man; “and the sight of you again seems to have given me strength. You won’t go back again yet, Luke?”“I was going back to-morrow, father,” he said; “but,” he added, on seeing the look of disappointment in the old man’s face, “I will stay a little longer.”“Do, my boy, do,” cried the old man; “and when I go off to sleep, as I shall soon—I sleep a great deal now, my boy—go and look round, and say a word to our neighbours. I often talk to them about you, Luke, and tell them that though you have grown to be a great man you are not a bit proud, and I should like them to see that you are not.”“That is soon done,” said Luke, laughing. “Why should I be proud?”“Oh, you might be, my boy, but you are not. Go and have a chat with Tomlinson and Fullerton. And, Luke, if you wouldn’t mind, when you are that way, I’d go in and see Humphrey Bone.”“Is he still master?” said Luke, thoughtfully, as the old days came vividly back.“No, my boy, not for these two years; and he’s quite laid by. An old man before his time, Luke, and it is the drink that has done it. I don’t judge him hardly though, for we never know what another’s weakness has been, and it is not for us to sit in judgment upon our brother’s faults. Will you go and see him, Luke?”“I will, father,” said the younger man, smiling and feeling refreshed, after his arduous daily toil and study of man’s greed, rapacity, and sin, with the simple, innocent kindness of his father’s heart.“That does me good, my boy, indeed it does,” said the old man, pathetically; and he held his son’s hand against his true old breast. “I’m very sorry for a great deal that I have done, my boy, and I like to see you growing up free from many of the weaknesses and hard ways that have been mine. What I am obliged to leave undone, Luke, I want you to do, for my time is very short, and I often lie here and think that I should like to go before the Master feeling that I had tried to do my best, and taught you, my boy, according to such knowledge of good as in me lay.”“My dear old father!” cried Luke, tenderly; and the hard, worldly crust that was gathering upon him seemed to melt away as he leaned over and carefully smoothed and turned the old man’s pillow with all the gentleness of a woman’s hand. “Why, what is it?” he said, as the old man uttered quite a sob, and the weak tears gathered in his eyes.“Nothing, my boy, it is nothing,” he said. “It only made me think of thirty years ago, when I was ill, and your mother used to turn my pillow like that—just like that, my boy—and you are so much like her, Luke; and as I lie here, a worn-out, trembling old man, and you come down—you, my boy, who have grown so great, and who, they tell me, will some day be Queen’s Counsel, and perhaps Attorney-General, and then a Judge, such a great man as you’ve become, Luke—I lie here thinking that you can come down and tend to me like this, it makes me thank God that I have such a son.”“Why, what have I done more than any other son would do? And as to becoming great, what nonsense!”“But it isn’t nonsense, Luke, my boy,” quavered the old man. “I’ve heard all about it; and, Luke, when you are Queen’s Counsel, nay boy, give her good advice, for kings and queens have much to answer for, and I should like her—God bless her!—to have a very long and happy reign.”“Indeed I will, father,” said Luke, laughing, “if ever it falls to my lot to be her adviser. But there, you are getting too much excited. Suppose you try and have a nap?”“I will, my boy, I will, and you’ll go round town a bit, and walk up and see the parson. He’ll be strange and glad to see thee, and if you see Mrs Cyril, say a kind word to the poor soul; she’s been very good to me, my boy, and comes and sits and talks to me a deal. Don’t think about the past, my boy, but about the future. Let’s try and do all the kindness we can, Luke, while we are here. Life is very short, my boy—a very, very little span.”“Father,” said Luke, bending over the old man’s pillow, “for your sake and your kindly words, I’ll do the best I can.”“Thank you, my boy, God bless you, I know you will,” said the old man. “For life is so short, Luke, my son. Good-bye, my boy. Do all the good you can. I’m going to sleep now. God bless you, good-bye.”He closed his eyes, and drew a long breath, dropping off at once into a calm and restful slumber, Luke staying by his side for a while.Then taking out a blue official-looking document from his pocket, he looked at it for a few moments before replacing it in his breast.“Poor old man!” he said, softly. “I wish I had told him what I was about to do, it would have pleased him to know.”He got up and went softly down-stairs, to pause for a few minutes in the homely, comfortably furnished room with its well-polished furniture, every knob and handle seeming like familiar friends. There was his father’s seat, his mother’s, and the little Windsor arm-chair that had been his own, religiously preserved, and kept as bright as beeswax and sturdy country hands could make it.“He has gone off to sleep,” Luke said to the matronly housekeeper, who never ventured to speak to him without a curtsey.“No, Mr Luke, sir—I mean yes, Mr Luke, sir, I’ll keep going up and peeping at him, and take him his beef tea when he wakens. Your coming, sir, begging your pardon for taking the liberty of saying so, sir, have done him a power of good.”Luke smiled and nodded—“so condescending and kind-like,” the woman afterwards told a neighbour—and walked out across the marketplace, stopping to shake hands here and there with the tradesmen who came to their doors, and at last making his way down towards the schools.“They seem to esteem me a very great gun,” he said, half in jest, half bitterly, as he walked slowly on, passing men whom he remembered as boys, and responding constantly to the salutations he received.He had not intended to go that way, thinking he would send his missive over to Kilby by post, and asking himself why he had not mentioned the matter to Portlock as he drove him in that day; but somehow his footsteps turned in the direction of the farm, and he had nearly reached the turning indelibly marked in his memory as the one along which he had come that cruel eve, when suddenly a merry shout from a childish voice fell upon his ear.He did not know why it should, but it seemed to thrill him as he went on, to come in sight of two bright, golden-haired little girls, each with her pinky fingers full of flowers, and her chubby face flushed with exercise.They stopped and gazed at him for a moment, and then ran back.“I’m not one whom young folks take to,” he said, bitterly; and then his heart seemed to stand still, for he saw them run up to a pale, graceful-looking woman, who bent down, and evidently said something to the children, both of whom hesitated for a moment, and then came running back.“Sage,” he said to himself, as he involuntarily stopped short. “How changed!”Then, as he saw the children approach, an involuntary feeling of repugnance came over him, and his heart seemed to shrink from the encounter.Hischildren. So pretty, but with a something in their innocent faces that reminded him terribly of their father.He would have turned back, but he was spell-bound, and the next moment the little things were at his side, the elder to take his hand and kiss it, saying in her silvery, childish voice—“I can’t reach to kiss you more, for being so good to poor mamma.”“And I’ll dive you my fowers, Mitter Luke,” said the other little thing. “Sagey pick all hertelf.”An agony of shame, of love, of regret and pleasure commingled seemed to sweep across Luke Ross, as, with convulsed face, he went down on one knee in the road and caught the little ones to his breast.“My darlings!” he cried, hoarsely, as he kissed them passionately.Then, with his eyes blinded by the hot tears of agony, he caught the blue envelope from his breast and pressed it into the youngest little one’s hands.“Take it to mamma, my child, and say Luke Ross prays that it may make her happy.”Then, unable to command his feelings, he turned and walked away.

Portlock was right in saying that Luke would be down the next day, for, reproaching himself for his neglect of his father, he hastened down to find him somewhat recovered from the sudden attack that had prostrated him, and the old man’s face lit up as his son entered the room.

“Yes, my boy, better; yes, I’m better,” he said, feebly; “but it can’t be for long, Luke; it can’t be for long. I’m very, very glad you have come.”

“But you are better,” said Luke; “and good spirits have so much to do with recovery.”

“Well, yes, my boy, yes,” said the old man; “and the sight of you again seems to have given me strength. You won’t go back again yet, Luke?”

“I was going back to-morrow, father,” he said; “but,” he added, on seeing the look of disappointment in the old man’s face, “I will stay a little longer.”

“Do, my boy, do,” cried the old man; “and when I go off to sleep, as I shall soon—I sleep a great deal now, my boy—go and look round, and say a word to our neighbours. I often talk to them about you, Luke, and tell them that though you have grown to be a great man you are not a bit proud, and I should like them to see that you are not.”

“That is soon done,” said Luke, laughing. “Why should I be proud?”

“Oh, you might be, my boy, but you are not. Go and have a chat with Tomlinson and Fullerton. And, Luke, if you wouldn’t mind, when you are that way, I’d go in and see Humphrey Bone.”

“Is he still master?” said Luke, thoughtfully, as the old days came vividly back.

“No, my boy, not for these two years; and he’s quite laid by. An old man before his time, Luke, and it is the drink that has done it. I don’t judge him hardly though, for we never know what another’s weakness has been, and it is not for us to sit in judgment upon our brother’s faults. Will you go and see him, Luke?”

“I will, father,” said the younger man, smiling and feeling refreshed, after his arduous daily toil and study of man’s greed, rapacity, and sin, with the simple, innocent kindness of his father’s heart.

“That does me good, my boy, indeed it does,” said the old man, pathetically; and he held his son’s hand against his true old breast. “I’m very sorry for a great deal that I have done, my boy, and I like to see you growing up free from many of the weaknesses and hard ways that have been mine. What I am obliged to leave undone, Luke, I want you to do, for my time is very short, and I often lie here and think that I should like to go before the Master feeling that I had tried to do my best, and taught you, my boy, according to such knowledge of good as in me lay.”

“My dear old father!” cried Luke, tenderly; and the hard, worldly crust that was gathering upon him seemed to melt away as he leaned over and carefully smoothed and turned the old man’s pillow with all the gentleness of a woman’s hand. “Why, what is it?” he said, as the old man uttered quite a sob, and the weak tears gathered in his eyes.

“Nothing, my boy, it is nothing,” he said. “It only made me think of thirty years ago, when I was ill, and your mother used to turn my pillow like that—just like that, my boy—and you are so much like her, Luke; and as I lie here, a worn-out, trembling old man, and you come down—you, my boy, who have grown so great, and who, they tell me, will some day be Queen’s Counsel, and perhaps Attorney-General, and then a Judge, such a great man as you’ve become, Luke—I lie here thinking that you can come down and tend to me like this, it makes me thank God that I have such a son.”

“Why, what have I done more than any other son would do? And as to becoming great, what nonsense!”

“But it isn’t nonsense, Luke, my boy,” quavered the old man. “I’ve heard all about it; and, Luke, when you are Queen’s Counsel, nay boy, give her good advice, for kings and queens have much to answer for, and I should like her—God bless her!—to have a very long and happy reign.”

“Indeed I will, father,” said Luke, laughing, “if ever it falls to my lot to be her adviser. But there, you are getting too much excited. Suppose you try and have a nap?”

“I will, my boy, I will, and you’ll go round town a bit, and walk up and see the parson. He’ll be strange and glad to see thee, and if you see Mrs Cyril, say a kind word to the poor soul; she’s been very good to me, my boy, and comes and sits and talks to me a deal. Don’t think about the past, my boy, but about the future. Let’s try and do all the kindness we can, Luke, while we are here. Life is very short, my boy—a very, very little span.”

“Father,” said Luke, bending over the old man’s pillow, “for your sake and your kindly words, I’ll do the best I can.”

“Thank you, my boy, God bless you, I know you will,” said the old man. “For life is so short, Luke, my son. Good-bye, my boy. Do all the good you can. I’m going to sleep now. God bless you, good-bye.”

He closed his eyes, and drew a long breath, dropping off at once into a calm and restful slumber, Luke staying by his side for a while.

Then taking out a blue official-looking document from his pocket, he looked at it for a few moments before replacing it in his breast.

“Poor old man!” he said, softly. “I wish I had told him what I was about to do, it would have pleased him to know.”

He got up and went softly down-stairs, to pause for a few minutes in the homely, comfortably furnished room with its well-polished furniture, every knob and handle seeming like familiar friends. There was his father’s seat, his mother’s, and the little Windsor arm-chair that had been his own, religiously preserved, and kept as bright as beeswax and sturdy country hands could make it.

“He has gone off to sleep,” Luke said to the matronly housekeeper, who never ventured to speak to him without a curtsey.

“No, Mr Luke, sir—I mean yes, Mr Luke, sir, I’ll keep going up and peeping at him, and take him his beef tea when he wakens. Your coming, sir, begging your pardon for taking the liberty of saying so, sir, have done him a power of good.”

Luke smiled and nodded—“so condescending and kind-like,” the woman afterwards told a neighbour—and walked out across the marketplace, stopping to shake hands here and there with the tradesmen who came to their doors, and at last making his way down towards the schools.

“They seem to esteem me a very great gun,” he said, half in jest, half bitterly, as he walked slowly on, passing men whom he remembered as boys, and responding constantly to the salutations he received.

He had not intended to go that way, thinking he would send his missive over to Kilby by post, and asking himself why he had not mentioned the matter to Portlock as he drove him in that day; but somehow his footsteps turned in the direction of the farm, and he had nearly reached the turning indelibly marked in his memory as the one along which he had come that cruel eve, when suddenly a merry shout from a childish voice fell upon his ear.

He did not know why it should, but it seemed to thrill him as he went on, to come in sight of two bright, golden-haired little girls, each with her pinky fingers full of flowers, and her chubby face flushed with exercise.

They stopped and gazed at him for a moment, and then ran back.

“I’m not one whom young folks take to,” he said, bitterly; and then his heart seemed to stand still, for he saw them run up to a pale, graceful-looking woman, who bent down, and evidently said something to the children, both of whom hesitated for a moment, and then came running back.

“Sage,” he said to himself, as he involuntarily stopped short. “How changed!”

Then, as he saw the children approach, an involuntary feeling of repugnance came over him, and his heart seemed to shrink from the encounter.

Hischildren. So pretty, but with a something in their innocent faces that reminded him terribly of their father.

He would have turned back, but he was spell-bound, and the next moment the little things were at his side, the elder to take his hand and kiss it, saying in her silvery, childish voice—

“I can’t reach to kiss you more, for being so good to poor mamma.”

“And I’ll dive you my fowers, Mitter Luke,” said the other little thing. “Sagey pick all hertelf.”

An agony of shame, of love, of regret and pleasure commingled seemed to sweep across Luke Ross, as, with convulsed face, he went down on one knee in the road and caught the little ones to his breast.

“My darlings!” he cried, hoarsely, as he kissed them passionately.

Then, with his eyes blinded by the hot tears of agony, he caught the blue envelope from his breast and pressed it into the youngest little one’s hands.

“Take it to mamma, my child, and say Luke Ross prays that it may make her happy.”

Then, unable to command his feelings, he turned and walked away.

Part 3, Chapter XI.Luke Visits an Old Friend.“Life is very short, my boy, a very little span,” seemed to keep repeating itself to Luke Ross’s ears, as he walked briskly across the fields trying to regain his composure, hardly realising that he was going in the direction of the rectory, till he had nearly reached the gates, when he paused, not daring to enter.“It would be almost an insult after the part I was forced to play,” he said to himself, and he set off towards the town.But somehow his father’s words seemed to keep repeating themselves, and he altered his mind, turned back, and went in.“I go in all kindliness,” he said to himself; “and perhaps the poor old man would like to know what I have done.”The next minute he stopped short, hardly recognising in the bent, pallid figure, with snowy hair, the fine, portly Rector of a dozen years ago.“I beg your pardon; my sight is not so good as it was,” said the old man apologetically, as he shaded his eyes with a hand holding a trowel.“It is Luke Ross, Mr Mallow. I was down here for the first time for some years, and I thought I would call.”The old man neither moved nor spoke for a few moments, but stood as if turned to stone.Then recovering himself, but still terribly agitated by the recollections that the meeting brought up, he held out his hand.“I am glad you came, Luke, very glad,” he said. “I—I call you Luke,” he continued, smiling, “it seems so familiar. Your visit, my boy, honours me, and I am very, very glad you came.”There was a thoroughly genial warmth in the old man’s greeting as he passed his arm through that of his visitor, and led him into one of the glass-houses that it was his joy to tend.“I hear a good deal about you, Mr Ross, and go and chat with your father about you. But—but, my boy, you have seen him, have you not?”“I was with him till he went to sleep, not an hour ago.”“That is well, that is well,” said the Rector, who had fallen into the old life habit of repeating himself. “Stay with him awhile if you can, Luke. Life is very uncertain at his age, and I have my fears about him—grave fears indeed.”“He is a great age, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, “but he quite cheered up when I came.”“He would,” said the Rector, with his voice trembling, “he would, Luke Ross, and—and I cannot help feeling how hard is my own lot compared to his. Luke Ross,” he said, after an effort to recover his calmness, “I have no son to be a blessing to me in my old age; three of my children have quite passed away.”It seemed no time for words, and Luke felt that the greatest kindness on his part would be to hold his peace.The old Rector appeared to recover from his emotion soon after, as Luke asked after Mrs Mallow.“It would be foolish,” said the Rector, “if I said not well. Poor thing; she is a sad invalid, but she bears it with exemplary patience, Luke Ross. See,” he continued, pointing to a waxy-looking, sweet-scented flower, “this is a plant I am trying to cultivate for her. She is so fond of flowers. It is hard work to get it to grow though. It requires heat, and I find it difficult to keep it at the right temperature.”Luke kept hoping that the old man would make some fresh allusion to his son, and give an opportunity for introducing something the visitor wished to say.“I grow a great many grapes now,” continued the Rector, “and I have so arranged my houses that I have grapes from June right up to March.”“Indeed, sir,” said Luke, as he noted more and more how the old man had changed. He had become garrulous, and prattled on with rather a vacant smile upon his lip, as he led his visitor from place to place, pointing out the various objects in which he took pride.For a time Luke felt repelled by the old man’s weakness, but as he found that one idea ran through all this conversation, a sweet, tender devotion for the suffering wife, respect took the place of the approach to contempt.“You will not mind, Luke Ross,” he said, “if I stop to cut a bunch of grapes for my poor wife, will you?”“Indeed, no, sir,” said Luke, narrowly watching him.“She does not know that I have one in such a state of perfection,” he said, laughing, “for I’ve kept it a secret. Poor soul! she is so fond of grapes; and, do you know, Luke Ross, I’m quite convinced that there is a great deal of nutriment and support in this fruit, for sometimes when my poor darling cannot touch food of an ordinary kind she will go on enjoying grapes, and they seem to support and keep her alive.”“It is very probable that it is as you say, sir.”“Yes, I think it is,” said the old Rector, slowly drawing forward a pair of steps, and planting them just beneath where a large bunch of grapes hung, beautifully covered with violet bloom. “There,” he said, taking a pair of pocket scissors from his vest, and opening them. “Look at that, Luke Ross, eh! Isn’t that fine?”“As fine as we see in Covent-garden, sir.”“That they are, that they are, and I grow them entirely myself, Luke Ross. Nobody touches them but me. I dress and prune my vines myself, and thin the bunches. No other hand touches them but mine. Now for a basket.”He took a pretty little wicker basket from a nail whereon it hung, and then, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he snipped off half-a-dozen leaves, which he carefully arranged in the bottom of the basket, so as to form a bed for the bunch of grapes.“So much depends upon the appearance of anything for an invalid, Luke Ross,” he said, smiling with pleasure as he went on. “I have to make things look very attractive sometimes if I want her to eat. Now, then, I think that we shall do.”“Shall I cut the bunch for you, Mr Mallow?” said Luke, as he saw, with a feeling of apprehension, that the old man was about to mount the frail steps.“Cut—cut the bunch?” said the Rector, looking at him aghast, “Oh, dear no; I could not let any one touch them but myself. No—no disrespect, my young friend,” he said, apologetically, “but she is very weak, and I have to tempt her to eat. My dear boy—I mean my dear Mr Ross—if she thought that any hand had touched them but mine she would not eat them; and it is by these little things that I have been able to keep her alive so long.”He sat down on the top of the steps as he spoke, and smiled blandly from his throne.“You will not feel hurt, Mr Ross?” he said, gently. “I appreciate your kindness. You are afraid that I shall fall, but I am very cautious. See how much time I take.”He smiled pleasantly as he went on with his task, rising carefully, taking tightly hold of the stout wires that supported the vine, and steadying himself on the top of the steps till he felt quite safe, when, letting go his hold, he placed the basket tenderly beneath the perfect bunch of grapes, raising it a little till the fruit lay in the bed of leaves prepared for its repose, and then there was a sharp snip of the scissors at the stalk, and the old man looked down with a sort of serene joy in his countenance.“Are they not lovely?” he said, as he carefully descended, until he stood in safety upon the red-brick floor.He held up the basket of violet-bloomed berries for his visitor to see, smiling with pleasure as he saw the openly-displayed admiration for the beautiful fruit.“They make her so happy,” said the old man, with tears standing in his eyes. “Don’t think me weak, Mr Ross. It is a sad thing, all these many years, sir, to be confined to her couch, helpless, and dependent on those who love her,” said the old man, again dreamily, as he gazed down at the grapes.“Think you weak, Mr Mallow,” cried Luke, with energy. “No, sir; I thank God that we have such men as you on earth.”The old man shook his head sadly.“No, no—no, no,” he said. “A weak, foolish, indulgent man, Mr Ross, whom his Master will weigh in the balance and find wanting. But I have tried to do my best—weakly, Mr Ross, but weakly. I fear that my trumpet has given forth but an uncertain sound.”Just then an idea seemed to strike the old man, who smiled pleasantly, set his basket down, took another from a nail, and then snipped more leaves, and gazed up at his bunches for a few moments, his handsome old face being a study as his eyes wandered from cane to cane.Suddenly his face lit up more and more, and he turned to Luke.“You shall move the steps for me,” he said. “Just there, under that large bunch.”Luke obeyed, wondering, and the old man then handed him the basket and scissors.“You shall cut that bunch for me, Mr Ross, please.”“Really, sir,—” began Luke.“Please oblige me, Mr Ross. You saw how I did it. I will hold the steps; you shall not fall.”Luke smiled as he thought of the risk; and then, to humour the old man, he mounted, the Rector watching him intently.“You will be very careful, Mr Ross,” he said. “Let the bunch glide, as it were, into the leaves. A little more to the right. Now then cut—cut!”The scissors gave a sharp snip, and the second bunch reclined in its green bed.“I didn’t think of it before,” said the Rector, whose face glowed with pleasure as Luke descended. “They are not quite so fine as this bunch,” he said, apologetically.“Really, I hardly see any difference, Mr Mallow,” replied Luke.“Very little, Luke Ross. Will you carry them home with you? Your father will be pleased with them, I know. He likes my grapes, Mr Ross.”Luke’s answer was to grasp the old man’s hand, which he retained as he spoke.“I thank you, Mr Mallow,” he said. “It was thoughtful and kind of you to the poor old man. Now, may I say something to you? Forgive me if I bring up painful things.”“It is something about Julia, or about my son,” gasped the Rector. “Tell me quickly—tell me the worst.”“Be calm, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, quietly; “there is nothing wrong.”“Thank God!” said the old man, fervently, with a sigh that was almost a groan. “Thank God!”“After some difficulty and long trying, I obtained a permit for two visitors to see Cyril Mallow at Peatmoor, and that permit I have placed this afternoon in Mrs Cyril’s hands.”“Permission—to see my son?” faltered the old man.“Yes, sir. I thought that you would accompany your daughter-in-law to see him.”The old man stood with his hands clasped, gazing sadly in his visitor’s face, but without speaking.At last he shook his head sadly.“No,” he said, “I cannot go. I should dread the meeting. I think it would kill me, Luke. But if it were my duty, I would go. I have one here, though—one I cannot neglect. It would take three or four days, at least, to go and return. I could not leave my dear wife as many hours, or I should return and find her dead. Go for me, Luke. Take that poor, suffering woman, and let her see him once again.”“I—I take her?” cried Luke, starting. “Mr Mallow!”“It would be an act of gentle charity,” said the old man, “and I would bless you for your love. But I must go now, Luke Ross,” he said, half vacantly. “My head is very weak now. I am old, and I have had much trouble. You will give your father the grapes—with my love?”He took up his own basket, and the sight of the soft violet fruit appeared to soothe him, for he began to smile pleasantly, seeming quite to have forgotten the allusion to the permit; and in this spirit he walked with Luke to the gate, shook hands almost affectionately, and they parted.

“Life is very short, my boy, a very little span,” seemed to keep repeating itself to Luke Ross’s ears, as he walked briskly across the fields trying to regain his composure, hardly realising that he was going in the direction of the rectory, till he had nearly reached the gates, when he paused, not daring to enter.

“It would be almost an insult after the part I was forced to play,” he said to himself, and he set off towards the town.

But somehow his father’s words seemed to keep repeating themselves, and he altered his mind, turned back, and went in.

“I go in all kindliness,” he said to himself; “and perhaps the poor old man would like to know what I have done.”

The next minute he stopped short, hardly recognising in the bent, pallid figure, with snowy hair, the fine, portly Rector of a dozen years ago.

“I beg your pardon; my sight is not so good as it was,” said the old man apologetically, as he shaded his eyes with a hand holding a trowel.

“It is Luke Ross, Mr Mallow. I was down here for the first time for some years, and I thought I would call.”

The old man neither moved nor spoke for a few moments, but stood as if turned to stone.

Then recovering himself, but still terribly agitated by the recollections that the meeting brought up, he held out his hand.

“I am glad you came, Luke, very glad,” he said. “I—I call you Luke,” he continued, smiling, “it seems so familiar. Your visit, my boy, honours me, and I am very, very glad you came.”

There was a thoroughly genial warmth in the old man’s greeting as he passed his arm through that of his visitor, and led him into one of the glass-houses that it was his joy to tend.

“I hear a good deal about you, Mr Ross, and go and chat with your father about you. But—but, my boy, you have seen him, have you not?”

“I was with him till he went to sleep, not an hour ago.”

“That is well, that is well,” said the Rector, who had fallen into the old life habit of repeating himself. “Stay with him awhile if you can, Luke. Life is very uncertain at his age, and I have my fears about him—grave fears indeed.”

“He is a great age, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, “but he quite cheered up when I came.”

“He would,” said the Rector, with his voice trembling, “he would, Luke Ross, and—and I cannot help feeling how hard is my own lot compared to his. Luke Ross,” he said, after an effort to recover his calmness, “I have no son to be a blessing to me in my old age; three of my children have quite passed away.”

It seemed no time for words, and Luke felt that the greatest kindness on his part would be to hold his peace.

The old Rector appeared to recover from his emotion soon after, as Luke asked after Mrs Mallow.

“It would be foolish,” said the Rector, “if I said not well. Poor thing; she is a sad invalid, but she bears it with exemplary patience, Luke Ross. See,” he continued, pointing to a waxy-looking, sweet-scented flower, “this is a plant I am trying to cultivate for her. She is so fond of flowers. It is hard work to get it to grow though. It requires heat, and I find it difficult to keep it at the right temperature.”

Luke kept hoping that the old man would make some fresh allusion to his son, and give an opportunity for introducing something the visitor wished to say.

“I grow a great many grapes now,” continued the Rector, “and I have so arranged my houses that I have grapes from June right up to March.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Luke, as he noted more and more how the old man had changed. He had become garrulous, and prattled on with rather a vacant smile upon his lip, as he led his visitor from place to place, pointing out the various objects in which he took pride.

For a time Luke felt repelled by the old man’s weakness, but as he found that one idea ran through all this conversation, a sweet, tender devotion for the suffering wife, respect took the place of the approach to contempt.

“You will not mind, Luke Ross,” he said, “if I stop to cut a bunch of grapes for my poor wife, will you?”

“Indeed, no, sir,” said Luke, narrowly watching him.

“She does not know that I have one in such a state of perfection,” he said, laughing, “for I’ve kept it a secret. Poor soul! she is so fond of grapes; and, do you know, Luke Ross, I’m quite convinced that there is a great deal of nutriment and support in this fruit, for sometimes when my poor darling cannot touch food of an ordinary kind she will go on enjoying grapes, and they seem to support and keep her alive.”

“It is very probable that it is as you say, sir.”

“Yes, I think it is,” said the old Rector, slowly drawing forward a pair of steps, and planting them just beneath where a large bunch of grapes hung, beautifully covered with violet bloom. “There,” he said, taking a pair of pocket scissors from his vest, and opening them. “Look at that, Luke Ross, eh! Isn’t that fine?”

“As fine as we see in Covent-garden, sir.”

“That they are, that they are, and I grow them entirely myself, Luke Ross. Nobody touches them but me. I dress and prune my vines myself, and thin the bunches. No other hand touches them but mine. Now for a basket.”

He took a pretty little wicker basket from a nail whereon it hung, and then, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he snipped off half-a-dozen leaves, which he carefully arranged in the bottom of the basket, so as to form a bed for the bunch of grapes.

“So much depends upon the appearance of anything for an invalid, Luke Ross,” he said, smiling with pleasure as he went on. “I have to make things look very attractive sometimes if I want her to eat. Now, then, I think that we shall do.”

“Shall I cut the bunch for you, Mr Mallow?” said Luke, as he saw, with a feeling of apprehension, that the old man was about to mount the frail steps.

“Cut—cut the bunch?” said the Rector, looking at him aghast, “Oh, dear no; I could not let any one touch them but myself. No—no disrespect, my young friend,” he said, apologetically, “but she is very weak, and I have to tempt her to eat. My dear boy—I mean my dear Mr Ross—if she thought that any hand had touched them but mine she would not eat them; and it is by these little things that I have been able to keep her alive so long.”

He sat down on the top of the steps as he spoke, and smiled blandly from his throne.

“You will not feel hurt, Mr Ross?” he said, gently. “I appreciate your kindness. You are afraid that I shall fall, but I am very cautious. See how much time I take.”

He smiled pleasantly as he went on with his task, rising carefully, taking tightly hold of the stout wires that supported the vine, and steadying himself on the top of the steps till he felt quite safe, when, letting go his hold, he placed the basket tenderly beneath the perfect bunch of grapes, raising it a little till the fruit lay in the bed of leaves prepared for its repose, and then there was a sharp snip of the scissors at the stalk, and the old man looked down with a sort of serene joy in his countenance.

“Are they not lovely?” he said, as he carefully descended, until he stood in safety upon the red-brick floor.

He held up the basket of violet-bloomed berries for his visitor to see, smiling with pleasure as he saw the openly-displayed admiration for the beautiful fruit.

“They make her so happy,” said the old man, with tears standing in his eyes. “Don’t think me weak, Mr Ross. It is a sad thing, all these many years, sir, to be confined to her couch, helpless, and dependent on those who love her,” said the old man, again dreamily, as he gazed down at the grapes.

“Think you weak, Mr Mallow,” cried Luke, with energy. “No, sir; I thank God that we have such men as you on earth.”

The old man shook his head sadly.

“No, no—no, no,” he said. “A weak, foolish, indulgent man, Mr Ross, whom his Master will weigh in the balance and find wanting. But I have tried to do my best—weakly, Mr Ross, but weakly. I fear that my trumpet has given forth but an uncertain sound.”

Just then an idea seemed to strike the old man, who smiled pleasantly, set his basket down, took another from a nail, and then snipped more leaves, and gazed up at his bunches for a few moments, his handsome old face being a study as his eyes wandered from cane to cane.

Suddenly his face lit up more and more, and he turned to Luke.

“You shall move the steps for me,” he said. “Just there, under that large bunch.”

Luke obeyed, wondering, and the old man then handed him the basket and scissors.

“You shall cut that bunch for me, Mr Ross, please.”

“Really, sir,—” began Luke.

“Please oblige me, Mr Ross. You saw how I did it. I will hold the steps; you shall not fall.”

Luke smiled as he thought of the risk; and then, to humour the old man, he mounted, the Rector watching him intently.

“You will be very careful, Mr Ross,” he said. “Let the bunch glide, as it were, into the leaves. A little more to the right. Now then cut—cut!”

The scissors gave a sharp snip, and the second bunch reclined in its green bed.

“I didn’t think of it before,” said the Rector, whose face glowed with pleasure as Luke descended. “They are not quite so fine as this bunch,” he said, apologetically.

“Really, I hardly see any difference, Mr Mallow,” replied Luke.

“Very little, Luke Ross. Will you carry them home with you? Your father will be pleased with them, I know. He likes my grapes, Mr Ross.”

Luke’s answer was to grasp the old man’s hand, which he retained as he spoke.

“I thank you, Mr Mallow,” he said. “It was thoughtful and kind of you to the poor old man. Now, may I say something to you? Forgive me if I bring up painful things.”

“It is something about Julia, or about my son,” gasped the Rector. “Tell me quickly—tell me the worst.”

“Be calm, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, quietly; “there is nothing wrong.”

“Thank God!” said the old man, fervently, with a sigh that was almost a groan. “Thank God!”

“After some difficulty and long trying, I obtained a permit for two visitors to see Cyril Mallow at Peatmoor, and that permit I have placed this afternoon in Mrs Cyril’s hands.”

“Permission—to see my son?” faltered the old man.

“Yes, sir. I thought that you would accompany your daughter-in-law to see him.”

The old man stood with his hands clasped, gazing sadly in his visitor’s face, but without speaking.

At last he shook his head sadly.

“No,” he said, “I cannot go. I should dread the meeting. I think it would kill me, Luke. But if it were my duty, I would go. I have one here, though—one I cannot neglect. It would take three or four days, at least, to go and return. I could not leave my dear wife as many hours, or I should return and find her dead. Go for me, Luke. Take that poor, suffering woman, and let her see him once again.”

“I—I take her?” cried Luke, starting. “Mr Mallow!”

“It would be an act of gentle charity,” said the old man, “and I would bless you for your love. But I must go now, Luke Ross,” he said, half vacantly. “My head is very weak now. I am old, and I have had much trouble. You will give your father the grapes—with my love?”

He took up his own basket, and the sight of the soft violet fruit appeared to soothe him, for he began to smile pleasantly, seeming quite to have forgotten the allusion to the permit; and in this spirit he walked with Luke to the gate, shook hands almost affectionately, and they parted.

Part 3, Chapter XII.A Long Sleep.If the Rector was placid and calm once more, so was not Luke Ross, whose pulses still throbbed more heavily than was their wont, as he thought of the old man’s words, and then, as it were to weave itself in with them, came the recollection of that which his father had said—that life was very short, and begging him to do all the good he could.“It is impossible,” he cried at last. “I, too, could not bear it.”He strode onward, walking more rapidly, for a strange feeling of dread oppressed him, and as he seemed to keep fighting against the possibility of his acceding to the Rector’s request, the words of the weak old man he had left asleep kept recurring, bidding him try to do all the good he could, for life was so very short.“But he will forget by to-morrow that he asked me,” said Luke, half aloud. “It is a mad idea, and I could not go.”As he reached the town, first one and then another familiar face appeared, and more than one of their owners seemed disposed to stop and speak, but Luke was too preoccupied, and he hurried on to his old home to find the housekeeper waiting for him at the door.“How is he?” he cried, quickly, for his conscience smote him for being so long away.“Sleeping as gently as a baby, sir,” the woman said. “Oh, what lovely grapes, sir. He will be so pleased with them. The doctor came in soon after you had gone out, and went and looked at him, but he said he was not to be disturbed on any account, so that he has not had his beef tea.”Luke found the table spread for his benefit as he crossed the room to go gently up-stairs and bend over the bed, where, as the housekeeper had said, old Michael Ross was sleeping as calmly as an infant. So Luke stole down once more to partake of the substantial meal prepared on his special behalf, the housekeeper refusing to seat herself at the same table with him.“No, sir,” she said, stiffly, “I know my duty to my betters too well for that. Michael Ross is an old neighbour, and knew my master well before he died, poor man.”“Do you think one of us ought to sit with my father?” said Luke, quickly, as the woman’s last words seemed to raise up a fresh train of troublous thought.“I’ll go and sit with him, sir, if you like,” said the woman, “but both doors are open, and the ceiling is so thin that you can almost hear him breathe.”“Perhaps it is not necessary,” said Luke, quickly. “You’ll excuse my being anxious.”“As if I didn’t respect you the more for it, Mr Luke, sir,” said the woman, warmly; “but as I was saying, I always had my meals with your dear father, sir.”“Then why not sit down here?”“Because things have changed, sir. We all know how you have got to be a famous man, and are rising still, sir; and we are proud of what you’ve done, and so I’d rather wait upon you, if you please.”Luke partook of his meal mechanically, listening the while for any sound from up-stairs, and twice over he rose and went up to find that the sleep was perfectly undisturbed.Then he reseated himself, and went on dreamily, thinking of the old man’s words.“Life is very short, my boy. Do all the good you can.”Over and over again he kept on repeating old Michael’s words, when they were not, with endless variations, repeating themselves.Then came the possibility of his going down with Sage to see Cyril Mallow.“No; it is impossible,” he said again. “Why should I go? What right have I there? I cannot—I will not—go.”He rose, and went up-stairs to rest himself by the old man’s bed, finding that he had not moved; and here Luke sat, thinking of the past, of the change from busy London, his chambers, and the briefs he had to read. Then he went back again in the past, seeming to see in the darkness of the room, partly illumined by a little shaded lamp, the whole of his past career, till a feeling of anger seemed to rise once more against Cyril Mallow, against Sage, and the fate that had treated him so ill.Just then the housekeeper came up and looked at the old man, nodding softly, as if to say, “He is all right,” and then she stole out again on tiptoe.Again the interweaving thoughts kept forming strange patterns before the watcher’s eyes, as hour after hour calmly glided by till close on midnight. Misery, despair, disappointment, seemed to pervade Luke’s brain, to the exclusion of all thought of his great success, and the troubles that must fall into each life, and then came a feeling of calm and repose, as he thought once more of the words of the patient old man beside whose bed he was seated.“I’ll try, father,” he suddenly said, “I’ll try. Self shall be forgotten, for the sake of my promises to you.”He had risen with the intention of going down on his knees by the old man’s bed, when the housekeeper entered the room.“I’ve brought you a cup of tea, sir,” she whispered. “It’s just on the stroke of two, sir, and I thought if you’d go to bed now I’d sit up with him.”“I mean to sit up with him to-night,” said Luke, quietly; “but ought he to sleep so long as this at once?”“Old people often do, sir, and it does ’em good. If you lean over him, sir, you can hear how softly he is a breath—Oh, Mr Luke, sir!”“Quick! the doctor,” cried Luke, excitedly. “No; I’ll go,” and he rushed to the door.There was no need, for old Michael Ross was fast asleep—sleeping as peacefully and well as those sleep who calmly drop into the gentle rest prepared for the weary when the fulness of time has come.

If the Rector was placid and calm once more, so was not Luke Ross, whose pulses still throbbed more heavily than was their wont, as he thought of the old man’s words, and then, as it were to weave itself in with them, came the recollection of that which his father had said—that life was very short, and begging him to do all the good he could.

“It is impossible,” he cried at last. “I, too, could not bear it.”

He strode onward, walking more rapidly, for a strange feeling of dread oppressed him, and as he seemed to keep fighting against the possibility of his acceding to the Rector’s request, the words of the weak old man he had left asleep kept recurring, bidding him try to do all the good he could, for life was so very short.

“But he will forget by to-morrow that he asked me,” said Luke, half aloud. “It is a mad idea, and I could not go.”

As he reached the town, first one and then another familiar face appeared, and more than one of their owners seemed disposed to stop and speak, but Luke was too preoccupied, and he hurried on to his old home to find the housekeeper waiting for him at the door.

“How is he?” he cried, quickly, for his conscience smote him for being so long away.

“Sleeping as gently as a baby, sir,” the woman said. “Oh, what lovely grapes, sir. He will be so pleased with them. The doctor came in soon after you had gone out, and went and looked at him, but he said he was not to be disturbed on any account, so that he has not had his beef tea.”

Luke found the table spread for his benefit as he crossed the room to go gently up-stairs and bend over the bed, where, as the housekeeper had said, old Michael Ross was sleeping as calmly as an infant. So Luke stole down once more to partake of the substantial meal prepared on his special behalf, the housekeeper refusing to seat herself at the same table with him.

“No, sir,” she said, stiffly, “I know my duty to my betters too well for that. Michael Ross is an old neighbour, and knew my master well before he died, poor man.”

“Do you think one of us ought to sit with my father?” said Luke, quickly, as the woman’s last words seemed to raise up a fresh train of troublous thought.

“I’ll go and sit with him, sir, if you like,” said the woman, “but both doors are open, and the ceiling is so thin that you can almost hear him breathe.”

“Perhaps it is not necessary,” said Luke, quickly. “You’ll excuse my being anxious.”

“As if I didn’t respect you the more for it, Mr Luke, sir,” said the woman, warmly; “but as I was saying, I always had my meals with your dear father, sir.”

“Then why not sit down here?”

“Because things have changed, sir. We all know how you have got to be a famous man, and are rising still, sir; and we are proud of what you’ve done, and so I’d rather wait upon you, if you please.”

Luke partook of his meal mechanically, listening the while for any sound from up-stairs, and twice over he rose and went up to find that the sleep was perfectly undisturbed.

Then he reseated himself, and went on dreamily, thinking of the old man’s words.

“Life is very short, my boy. Do all the good you can.”

Over and over again he kept on repeating old Michael’s words, when they were not, with endless variations, repeating themselves.

Then came the possibility of his going down with Sage to see Cyril Mallow.

“No; it is impossible,” he said again. “Why should I go? What right have I there? I cannot—I will not—go.”

He rose, and went up-stairs to rest himself by the old man’s bed, finding that he had not moved; and here Luke sat, thinking of the past, of the change from busy London, his chambers, and the briefs he had to read. Then he went back again in the past, seeming to see in the darkness of the room, partly illumined by a little shaded lamp, the whole of his past career, till a feeling of anger seemed to rise once more against Cyril Mallow, against Sage, and the fate that had treated him so ill.

Just then the housekeeper came up and looked at the old man, nodding softly, as if to say, “He is all right,” and then she stole out again on tiptoe.

Again the interweaving thoughts kept forming strange patterns before the watcher’s eyes, as hour after hour calmly glided by till close on midnight. Misery, despair, disappointment, seemed to pervade Luke’s brain, to the exclusion of all thought of his great success, and the troubles that must fall into each life, and then came a feeling of calm and repose, as he thought once more of the words of the patient old man beside whose bed he was seated.

“I’ll try, father,” he suddenly said, “I’ll try. Self shall be forgotten, for the sake of my promises to you.”

He had risen with the intention of going down on his knees by the old man’s bed, when the housekeeper entered the room.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea, sir,” she whispered. “It’s just on the stroke of two, sir, and I thought if you’d go to bed now I’d sit up with him.”

“I mean to sit up with him to-night,” said Luke, quietly; “but ought he to sleep so long as this at once?”

“Old people often do, sir, and it does ’em good. If you lean over him, sir, you can hear how softly he is a breath—Oh, Mr Luke, sir!”

“Quick! the doctor,” cried Luke, excitedly. “No; I’ll go,” and he rushed to the door.

There was no need, for old Michael Ross was fast asleep—sleeping as peacefully and well as those sleep who calmly drop into the gentle rest prepared for the weary when the fulness of time has come.

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