Part 3, Chapter III.
Luke Ross Hears News.
Old Michael Ross sat very patiently outside his son’s chambers, watching the door, and finding enough satisfaction in reading over the name, ‘Mr Ross,’ again and again.
“It’s not a grand place to look at,” he said to himself; “but they tell me he’s growing quite a big man. I read for myself what he says to the judges in court sometimes; and it’s a very great thing for my son to be allowed to talk to them.”
Then he had to move to allow some one to pass up, and soon after he had again to move for some one to pass down, and each time he rose those who passed looked keenly at the countrified old gentleman, with his carpet bag and umbrella, but no one spoke.
“I did see how many people there are in London,” said the old man to himself. “Three millions, I think it was; and yet what a strange dull place it is, and how lonesome a man can feel. Ah!” he said, sadly, “if my son was to be vexed because I have come up, and not be glad to see me, I think I should seem to be all alone in the world.”
Just then the door opened, and the little clerk came out with a felt hat stuck very much on one side of his head.
He started as he saw the old man seated patiently waiting, and after closing the door he said, sharply—
“Now then, old chap, what are you stopping for?”
“I was waiting to see my—to see Mr Ross,” said the old man, who seemed quite humbled by the greatness of his son.
“Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t at home?” said the boy.
“Yes, sir; and I was going to wait till he returned.”
“It’s of no use to wait; he don’t want to see you.”
“Do you think not?” said the old man, humbly.
“I’m sure he don’t. What have you got to sell?”
“Skins, sir, skins, principally sheep,” said the tanner, respectfully.
“Well, look here: just you be off. The governor buys all his skins when he wants ’em at the law stationers, but he hardly ever uses one. It’s the solicitors who do that. Now then, off you go.”
Just then the door opened, and a well-known voice called “Dick” loudly, the speaker coming out on to the stone landing, and then starting with surprise.
“Why, father!” he exclaimed. “You here? I am glad to see you. Really, I am glad to see you.”
The grave, stern way of speaking was gone, and it was Luke Ross of a dozen years before who was shaking the old man by the hands, and then patting him affectionately on the shoulders, the old man dropping umbrella and bag, and the tears starting to his weak old eyes, as he saw his son’s genuine pleasure at the encounter.
“Come along in, father,” continued Luke.
“Here, Dick, pick up those things and bring them in.”
Dick screwed up his face and stared.
“I—I’ll pick them up, Luke, my boy,” quavered the old man, glancing at the young clerk.
“No, no; he’ll bring them in, father,” said Luke, drawing the old man into the office and into his private room, where he thrust him into the most comfortable chair, and then stood over him smiling with pleasure, seeming as if he could hardly make enough of the little, shrunken old man.
“Just come up, I suppose?” cried Luke.
“Yes, my boy, yes,” said old Michael, wiping his eyes; “but I’ve been sitting out there on the stairs these two hours.”
“Sitting out there! Why didn’t you ring?”
“I did knock, my boy, and that lad of yours said you were out, and told me to go away; and if I had known you were in all the time, my boy, I should have gone away thinking you didn’t want to see your old father. Did you tell him to say you were out, Luke?”
“The young scoundrel! no,” cried Luke.
“I’m afraid he’s a very wicked boy, then,” piped the old man, “a very wicked boy. But are you glad to see me again, Luke?”
“Glad to see you, my dear old father? Why, yes, yes, you know I am. Come, come, come, or you’ll make me weak too.”
“Ye-ye—yes, my boy, it is weak,” quavered the old fellow, wiping his eyes hastily; “but I’m getting very old now, Luke. I was a middle-aged man when I married your dear mother, and I’m seventy-nine now, and not so strong as I was, and—and I got fancying as I came up that now you had grown to be such a great man you wouldn’t want to see such a shabby old fellow as I am at your chambers.”
“For shame, father!” cried Luke, reproachfully. “What cause have I ever given you for thinking that?”
“None at all, my boy, none at all. God bless you! You’re a good lad, and I’m very proud of you, Luke, very proud of you, and—and I am so glad to see you again. Luke, my boy,” he said, rising, and his tremulous old hands played caressingly about his son’s shoulders, “I’m a very old fellow now, and I dare say this is the last time I shall come to town.”
“Oh, no, no, no, father, you’ll make plenty of journeys up yet.”
“No, my boy, no,” said the old fellow, calmly; and he shook his head. “It can’t be; my next journey may be the long one, never to come back again, my boy.”
“Oh, father, come, come,” cried Luke, “don’t talk like that.”
“Why not, my boy?” said the old man, smiling; “it must come to that soon, and it never seems to trouble me now; but, Luke, my boy, would you—would you mind this once if—if I—if I—you were a little boy once, Luke, and I have always been so proud of you, and though you—you have grown to be such a great man, you seem only my boy still, and I should like to once more before I die.”
“Like to what, father?” cried the young man, smiling at his elder’s affectionate earnestness.
“I should like to kiss you, my boy—for the last time,” faltered the old man, humbly.
“My dear old father!”
It was all that was heard save a muffled sob, as Luke strained the old man to his breast, and position—the present—all was forgotten, as father and son stood there feeling as if five-and-twenty years had dropped away.
“Now,” said Luke, as the old man, with a happy smile upon his face, resumed his chair, the younger half seating himself upon the writing-table before him. “Now then, father,” said Luke, merrily, “am I glad to see you?”
“Yes, yes, my boy, I know you are;” and the old man took one of the delicate white hands in his, and gazed round the room. “I like your new chambers, my boy. Much better than the old ones. The furniture’s very nice; but you never wrote to your poor old father for fifty or a hundred pounds to buy it,” he said, reproachfully.
“There was no need, father,” said Luke, smiling. “I am making a good deal of money now.”
“Are you though? I’m glad of it. You ought to: you’re so clever; but you never come down, my boy.”
Luke’s brow clouded.
“I haven’t the heart, father,” he said, after a pause. “Come and see me instead; and if I don’t write so often as I should, it is really because I spend so much time in study and hard work.”
“Yes, of course, my boy, so you must. But—but you haven’t asked me why I came up.”
“To see me, of course,” said Luke.
“Well, yes, my boy, I did; but you—you haven’t the heart to come down?”
Luke shook his head.
“Do you—do you think,”—the old man held his son’s hand in both his own, and looked timidly in his face, “do you think about her still, my boy?”
“Every day, father,” said the young man, sternly. “I always shall.”
“Yes, yes, my boy. That is why I came up. I came to tell you, my boy: she’s in very great trouble.”
“Trouble!” said Luke, quickly; and his voice sounded hoarse and strange—“again?”
“Yes, yes, my boy. I knew you would like to know.”
Luke snatched his hand away, and paced up and down the room several times before stopping in front of the old man once more. “Has—has she been down, father?”
“Yes, my boy, she came down with her two little girls.”
“Did you see her?” said Luke, hoarsely. “Yes, my boy. I had to go to Churchwarden Portlock about some skins, and he took me into the room where she was, and she shook hands. Poor girl, poor girl, she’s strange and changed.”
“Changed, father?”
“Yes; old and careworn, and as if she’d suffered a deal of trouble.”
Luke Ross’s head went down upon his breast, and his voice was almost inaudible as he said—
“What is her trouble now?”
“You have heard nothing, then, my boy?”
“No, father, nothing.”
“Not that the wine merchant’s business has all come to bankruptcy?”
“No, father; but I am not surprised. He will always be a beggar. That is her trouble, then. She is back home?”
“Oh, no, my boy; she is in London. She would not leave her husband. Churchwarden Portlock came up with her, for it is a terrible trouble this time.”
“Indeed, father! Why?”
“They say he has committed forgery, my boy, and done no end of ill, and—and—”
“And what, father?” cried Lake, whose eyes were flashing with eagerness.
“He has been cast into prison, my boy, and they say it is a terribly bad case.”