“Indeed, sir,” said Luke, as he noted more and more how the old man had changed. He had become garrulous, and prattled on with rather a vacant smile upon his lip, as he led his visitor from place to place, pointing out the various objects in which he took pride.
For a time Luke felt repelled by the old man’s weakness, but as he found that one idea ran through all this conversation, a sweet, tender devotion for the suffering wife, respect took the place of the approach to contempt.
“You will not mind, Luke Ross,” he said, “if I stop to cut a bunch of grapes for my poor wife, will you?”
“Indeed, no, sir,” said Luke, narrowly watching him.
“She does not know that I have one in such a state of perfection,” he said, laughing, “for I’ve kept it a secret. Poor soul! she is so fond of grapes; and, do you know, Luke Ross, I’m quite convinced that there is a great deal of nutriment and support in this fruit, for sometimes when my poor darling cannot touch food of an ordinary kind she will go on enjoying grapes, and they seem to support and keep her alive.”
“It is very probable that it is as you say, sir.”
“Yes, I think it is,” said the old Rector, slowly drawing forward a pair of steps, and planting them just beneath where a large bunch of grapes hung, beautifully covered with violet bloom. “There,” he said, taking a pair of pocket scissors from his vest, and opening them. “Look at that, Luke Ross, eh! Isn’t that fine?”
“As fine as we see in Covent-garden, sir.”
“That they are, that they are, and I grow them entirely myself, Luke Ross. Nobody touches them but me. I dress and prune my vines myself, and thin the bunches. No other hand touches them but mine. Now for a basket.”
He took a pretty little wicker basket from a nail whereon it hung, and then, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he snipped off half-a-dozen leaves, which he carefully arranged in the bottom of the basket, so as to form a bed for the bunch of grapes.