“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.