Manassa’s colloquy with Pascal had left him in a very excited condition mentally. After uttering his spiteful declaration and slamming the door, he went into the garden prepared to be at war with all mankind. It so chanced that the first person with whom he came in contact was Terence, the head gardener.
Terence Devlin held the position of head gardener at Batistelli Castle. He had been guilty of an infraction of a law made by Englishmen for the government of Irishmen, and had left Ireland—not for his country’s good, but for his own personal safety. He had made his way to France, but soon found that British spies were on his track, and he chose Corsica as a country not likely to be very thickly populated with British emissaries.
“What are you doing, sir?” yelled Manassa, as he bent over the Irishman, who was upon his knees, trimming a garden border.
“Did yez spake to me, sor?” asked Terence, looking up.
“Of course I did. I wished to tell you that I am greatly displeased with your management of the grass-plots. Instead of pulling up the weeds one by one, as you should do, you let them grow, and they are taking deeper root every day. Why do you hire yourself out as a gardener without understanding your business?”
“Business, is it? And didn’t I take the full charge of the parks and gardens of his Lordship, the Earl of Bamford, and her Ladyship, Countess Stannerly’s gardens? No better gardener, sor, thin mesilf iver handled a spade, sure. This blatherin’ country, sor, was born in wades, reared in wades, and, God willin’, it will die in wades and be buried in wades. And is it mesilf that’ll pick thim out wan by wan? Whin Terry Devlin gets upon his knays to do the loikes o’ that, sor, you may put him down as a brainless jackass, widout any sinse at all, at all.”
“As I was saying when you had the impudence to interrupt me, there are far more weeds than grass in those plots—a most heathenish and unsightly spectacle. What did I hire you for, if not to do your work, and do it in strict accordance with my instructions? You forget yourself, sir!”
“I admit, sor, that the wades have got the best of the grass, and divil a doubt that they’ll kape it, too. They niver was known to give in if they have a show of a chance. They are just like your counthrymen, sor. If a poor divil is cross-eyed, they kill him, and if he is not, they kill him all the same, sor. An’ I take the liberty to tell ye, sor, that I resave my orders from the masther, Mr. Pashcal Batistelli, and no wan else. Do ye moind that, now?”
“The master!” exclaimed Manassa. “Pascal, the master! What folly! What do you suppose the lad can know about it? Why, that boy knows no more about gardening than a child unborn.”
“But he is masther of the Castle, all the same, sor,” said Terence, decidedly, “and I shall obey nobody else.”