"What! at night? I cannot. I am busy."
"But, father, he has a message."
"A message? What, another? I will not see him."
"For a moment, uncle. It is a word from Anthony," said Luke, entering the passage. "One word, shall I say it here, or within?"
"I care not—if it is one word, say it here; but only one word."
He was fumbling with the key in the lock. His hand that held the candle shook, and the wax fell on his fingers and on the cuff of his coat. He had the key inserted in the door, and could not turn it in the wards.
"Very well," said Luke. "You shall have it in one word—Never."
The old man let the key fall—he straightened himself. His voice shook with anger. "It is well. It is as I could have wished it. I take him at his word. Never. Never—let me say it again. Never, and once again, never; and each never shuts a door on him for all time. Never shall he have my forgiveness. Never shall he inherit an acre or a pound of mine. Never will I speak to him another word. Nay, were he dying, I would not go to see him; could I by a word save his life, I would not do it. Go tell him that. Now go—and Elizabeth, hold the candle. I will open the door; go in before me to my room; I'll lock the door on us both. Now all is plain. The wind has cleared away the mists, and we must settle all between us this night, with the way open before us."
He managed to unfasten the door, and he made his daughter pass in, carrying the light. Then he turned the key in the lock.
The little table was strewn with deeds and papers and books. Bessie cast a glance at it, and saw no spot on which she could set the candle. She therefore held it in her hand, standing before her father, who threw himself into his chair. She was pale, composed, and resolved. He could have nothing further to urge than what had been urged already, and she had her answer to that. The candle was short, it had swaled down into the tray, and could not burn for more than ten minutes.