“I hear a good deal about you, Mr Ross, and go and chat with your father about you. But—but, my boy, you have seen him, have you not?”
“I was with him till he went to sleep, not an hour ago.”
“That is well, that is well,” said the Rector, who had fallen into the old life habit of repeating himself. “Stay with him awhile if you can, Luke. Life is very uncertain at his age, and I have my fears about him—grave fears indeed.”
“He is a great age, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, “but he quite cheered up when I came.”
“He would,” said the Rector, with his voice trembling, “he would, Luke Ross, and—and I cannot help feeling how hard is my own lot compared to his. Luke Ross,” he said, after an effort to recover his calmness, “I have no son to be a blessing to me in my old age; three of my children have quite passed away.”
It seemed no time for words, and Luke felt that the greatest kindness on his part would be to hold his peace.
The old Rector appeared to recover from his emotion soon after, as Luke asked after Mrs Mallow.
“It would be foolish,” said the Rector, “if I said not well. Poor thing; she is a sad invalid, but she bears it with exemplary patience, Luke Ross. See,” he continued, pointing to a waxy-looking, sweet-scented flower, “this is a plant I am trying to cultivate for her. She is so fond of flowers. It is hard work to get it to grow though. It requires heat, and I find it difficult to keep it at the right temperature.”
Luke kept hoping that the old man would make some fresh allusion to his son, and give an opportunity for introducing something the visitor wished to say.
“I grow a great many grapes now,” continued the Rector, “and I have so arranged my houses that I have grapes from June right up to March.”