It needed no dull, cheerless morning for Luke’s spirits to be at the lowest ebb when he met his father at breakfast, the old man looking very weak, careworn, and troubled, as they sat over the barely-tasted meal.
Luke hardly spoke, but sat there thinking that he would make a fresh appeal to Mr Swift to relieve him of so terrible a charge, and expecting each moment that his father would again implore him to retire from the prosecution and take up the defence. At last the old man spoke.
“I’ve been lying awake all night, thinking about that, my boy,” he said, “and I’m very, very sorry.”
“Father,” said Luke, “it seems almost more than one can bear.”
“I said to myself that my boy was too noble not to forgive one who had done wrong to him in the past, and I said, too, that it would be a fine thing for him to show people how he was ready to go and fight on his old rival’s behalf.”
“And I will, father, or retire from the case altogether,” said Luke, eagerly.
“No, my son, no,” said the old man; “I have not long to live, and I should not like that little time to be embittered by the thought that I had urged my son to do a dishonourable act.”
“Oh, no,” cried Luke, “I will press them, and they will let me retire.”
“But if they refused again, my boy, it would be dishonourable to draw back after you had promised to do your best. No, my boy, there is the finger of God in it all, and you must go on. Poor girl, poor girl! it will be terrible for her, but we cannot fight against such things.”
“But I could not plead my cause with her eyes reproaching me,” said Luke, half to himself.