‘That’s all very fine now,’ said Kearney; ‘but there was a time I’d rather have chucked the chief constable out of the window and sent the sergeant after him.’
‘I don’t know whether that would have been better,’ said Gorman, with a faint smile.
‘Neither do I; but I know that I myself would have felt better and easier in my mind after it. I’d have eaten my breakfast with a good appetite, and gone about my day’s work, whatever it was, with a free heart and fearless in my conscience! Ay, ay,’ muttered he to himself, ‘poor old Ireland isn’t what it used to be!’
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but though I’d like immensely to go back with you, don’t you think I ought to return home?’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort. Your aunt and I had a tiff the last time we met, and that was some months ago. We’re both of us old and cross-grained enough to keep up the grudge for the rest of our lives. Let us, then, make the most of the accident that has led you here, and when you go home, you shall be the bearer of the most submissive message I can invent to my old friend, and there shall be no terms too humble for me to ask her pardon.’
‘That’s enough, sir. I’ll breakfast here.’
‘Of course you’ll say nothing of what brought you over here. But I ought to warn you not to drop anything carelessly about politics in the county generally, for we have a young relative and a private secretary of the Lord-Lieutenant’s visiting us, and it’s as well to be cautious before him.’
The old man mentioned this circumstance in the cursory tone of an ordinary remark, but he could not conceal the pride he felt in the rank and condition of his guest. As for Gorman, perhaps it was his foreign breeding, perhaps his ignorance of all home matters generally, but he simply assented to the force of the caution, and paid no other attention to the incident.
‘His name is Walpole, and he is related to half the peerage,’ said the old man, with some irritation of manner.
A mere nod acknowledged the information, and he went on—