When any words had passed between the brothers, the old cynic’s voice sounded less harsh, and its tones were sympathetic, as he strove to be consolatory to the suffering man. They had been seated some time together in silence, when Uncle Luke rose, and laid his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what to say to you, George,” he whispered softly. “For all these years past I’ve been, what you know, a childless, selfish man; but I feel for you, my lad—I feel for you, and I’d bear half your agony, if I could.”
George Vine turned upon him with a piteous smile, and took the hand resting on his shoulder.
“You need not speak, Luke,” he said sadly. “Do you think we have lived all these years without my understanding my brother, and knowing what he is at heart?”
Luke shook his head, gripped the hand which held his firmly, but could not speak.
“I am going to bear it like a man, please God; but it is hard, Luke, hard; and but for poor Louise’s sake I could wish that my journey was done.”
“No, no. No, no, George,” said the brother huskily. “There is, lad, much to do here yet—for you, my boy—for Louise—that poor, half-crazy woman up-stairs, and Uncle Luke, who is not much better, so they say. No, my boy, you must fight—you must bear, and bear it bravely, as you will, as soon as this first shock is over, and there’s always hope—always hope. The poor boy may have escaped.”
“Ay, to where? Luke, brother, for heaven’s sake let me be in peace. I cannot bear to speak now. I feel as if the strain is too great for my poor brain.”
Luke pressed his hand, and walked slowly to the window, from whence he could gaze down at the boats going and coming into the harbour; and he shuddered as he thought what any one of them might bring.
“Better it should, and at once,” he said to himself. “He’ll know no rest until that is past.”