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.