“After some difficulty and long trying, I obtained a permit for two visitors to see Cyril Mallow at Peatmoor, and that permit I have placed this afternoon in Mrs Cyril’s hands.”
“Permission—to see my son?” faltered the old man.
“Yes, sir. I thought that you would accompany your daughter-in-law to see him.”
The old man stood with his hands clasped, gazing sadly in his visitor’s face, but without speaking.
At last he shook his head sadly.
“No,” he said, “I cannot go. I should dread the meeting. I think it would kill me, Luke. But if it were my duty, I would go. I have one here, though—one I cannot neglect. It would take three or four days, at least, to go and return. I could not leave my dear wife as many hours, or I should return and find her dead. Go for me, Luke. Take that poor, suffering woman, and let her see him once again.”
“I—I take her?” cried Luke, starting. “Mr Mallow!”
“It would be an act of gentle charity,” said the old man, “and I would bless you for your love. But I must go now, Luke Ross,” he said, half vacantly. “My head is very weak now. I am old, and I have had much trouble. You will give your father the grapes—with my love?”
He took up his own basket, and the sight of the soft violet fruit appeared to soothe him, for he began to smile pleasantly, seeming quite to have forgotten the allusion to the permit; and in this spirit he walked with Luke to the gate, shook hands almost affectionately, and they parted.