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.