“Life is very short, my boy. Do all the good you can.”
Over and over again he kept on repeating old Michael’s words, when they were not, with endless variations, repeating themselves.
Then came the possibility of his going down with Sage to see Cyril Mallow.
“No; it is impossible,” he said again. “Why should I go? What right have I there? I cannot—I will not—go.”
He rose, and went up-stairs to rest himself by the old man’s bed, finding that he had not moved; and here Luke sat, thinking of the past, of the change from busy London, his chambers, and the briefs he had to read. Then he went back again in the past, seeming to see in the darkness of the room, partly illumined by a little shaded lamp, the whole of his past career, till a feeling of anger seemed to rise once more against Cyril Mallow, against Sage, and the fate that had treated him so ill.
Just then the housekeeper came up and looked at the old man, nodding softly, as if to say, “He is all right,” and then she stole out again on tiptoe.
Again the interweaving thoughts kept forming strange patterns before the watcher’s eyes, as hour after hour calmly glided by till close on midnight. Misery, despair, disappointment, seemed to pervade Luke’s brain, to the exclusion of all thought of his great success, and the troubles that must fall into each life, and then came a feeling of calm and repose, as he thought once more of the words of the patient old man beside whose bed he was seated.
“I’ll try, father,” he suddenly said, “I’ll try. Self shall be forgotten, for the sake of my promises to you.”
He had risen with the intention of going down on his knees by the old man’s bed, when the housekeeper entered the room.
“I’ve brought you a cup of tea, sir,” she whispered. “It’s just on the stroke of two, sir, and I thought if you’d go to bed now I’d sit up with him.”