“No,” said the old man, softly. “I said it in mine haste, and as I hurried here mine anger passed away; the scales dropped from mine eyes, and I knew that it was no work of thine. Truly, as Eli’s sons of old brought heaviness to their father’s heart, so have my poor sons to mine; and, Michael Ross,” he cried, holding out his trembling hands, “I was so proud of that boy—so proud. He was his mother’s idol, and, bad as he would be at times, he was always good to her. Can you wonder that she loved him? Oh, God help me! my boy—my boy!”
“It has been an agony to me ever since the brief was forced upon me, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, taking the old man’s hand. “Believe me, I could not help this duty I had to do.”
“God bless you, Luke Ross!” said the old man, feebly. “Like Balaam of old, I came to curse, and I stop to bless. If I have anything to forgive, I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. You have been a good son. Michael Ross, you have never known what it is to feel as I do now. But I must go back; I must go back to her at home. She waits to know the worst, and this last blow will kill her, gentlemen—my poor, suffering angel of a wife—it will be her death.”
“Will you not come and see Sage first?” said Portlock, with rough sympathy.
“No, no, I think not. The sight of my sad face would do her harm. I’ll get home. Keep her with you, Portlock. God bless her!—a true, sweet wife. We came like a blight to her, Portlock. Luke Ross, I ought not to have allowed it, but I thought it was for the best—that it would reform my boy. My life has been all mistakes, and I long now to lie down and sleep. Keep her with you, Portlock, and teach her and her little ones to forget us all.”
He tottered to the door to go, but Luke stepped forward.
“He is not fit to go alone,” he cried. “Mr Portlock, what is to be done?”
“I must take him home,” he replied, sadly. “I’d better take them all home, but I have a message for you.”
“For me?” cried Luke. “Not from Mrs Cyril?”
“Yes, from Sage. She wants to see you.”