“Your duty, my boy, your duty,” whispered the old man; and the next minute the visitors were in the room, finding, as they entered, that old Michael was holding his son’s arm in a tender, proud way that seemed to fix the old Rector’s eyes.
He was, indeed, old-looking and broken; sadly changed from the fine, handsome, greyheaded man that Luke knew so well.
“I met Mr Mallow almost at your door,” said Portlock, in his bluff, firm way. “We did not come together, but we both wanted to call.”
Luke pointed to chairs, but the old Rector remained standing, gazing reproachfully at Luke.
“Yes, I wanted to see you,” he said; “I wanted to see and speak to the man I taught when he was a boy, and in whom I took a great deal of pride. I was proud to see you progress, Luke Ross. I used to read and show the reports to your father when I saw them, for I said Luke Ross is a credit to our town.”
“And you said so to me often, Mr Mallow,” cried old Michael.
“I did—I did,” said the Rector; “and to-day in court I asked myself what I had ever done to this man that he should strike me such a blow.”
“Be just, for heaven’s sake, Mr Mallow,” cried Luke. “I did not seek the task I have fulfilled to-day.”
“And I said to myself, as I saw my only son dragged away by his gaolers, ‘I will go and curse this man—this cold-blooded wretch who could thus triumph over us.’ I said I would show him what he has done—bruised my heart, driven a suffering woman nearly mad, and made two little innocent children worse than orphans.”
“Mr Mallow, is this justice?” groaned Luke.