‘It is in no mood of passing fretfulness or impatience that I resolve to go and seek my fortune in Australia. As I feel now, believing you are displeased with me, I have no heart to go further into the question of my own selfish interests, nor say why I resolve to give up soldiering, and why I turn to a new existence. Had I been to you what I have hitherto been, had I the assurance that I possessed the old claim on your love which made me regard you as a dear mother, I should tell you of every step that has led me to this determination, and how carefully and anxiously I tried to study what might be the turning-point of my life.’
When he had written thus far, and his eyes had already grown glassy with the tears which would force their way across them, a heavy foot was heard on the stairs, the door was burst rudely open, and Peter Gill stood before him.
No longer, however, the old peasant in shabby clothes, and with his look half-shy, half-sycophant, but vulgarly dressed in broadcloth and bright buttons, a tall hat on his head, and a crimson cravat round his neck. His face was flushed, and his eye flashing and insolent, so that O’Shea only feebly recognised him by his voice.
‘You thought you’d be too quick for me, young man,’ said the fellow, and the voice in its thickness showed he had been drinking, ‘and that you would do your bit of writing there before I’d be back, but I was up to you.’
‘I really do not know what you mean,’ cried O’Shea, rising; ‘and as it is only too plain you have been drinking, I do not care to ask you.’
‘Whether I was drinking or no is my own business; there’s none to call me to account now. I am here in my own house, and I order you to leave it, and if you don’t go by the way you came in, by my soul you’ll go by that window!’ A loud bang of his stick on the floor gave the emphasis to the last words, and whether it was the action or the absurd figure of the man himself overcame O’Shea, he burst out in a hearty laugh as he surveyed him. ‘I’ll make it no laughing matter to you,’ cried Gill, wild with passion, and stepping to the door he cried out, ‘Come up, boys, every man of ye: come up and see the chap that’s trying to turn me out of my holding.’
The sound of voices and the tramp of feet outside now drew O’Shea to the window, and passing out on the balcony, he saw a considerable crowd of country-people assembled beneath. They were all armed with sticks, and had that look of mischief and daring so unmistakable in a mob. As the young man stood looking at them, some one pointed him out to the rest, and a wild yell, mingled with hisses, now broke from the crowd. He was turning away from the spot in disgust when he found that Gill had stationed himself at the window, and barred the passage.
‘The boys want another look at ye,’ said Gill insolently; ‘go back and show yourself: it is not every day they see an informer.’
‘Stand back, you old fool, and let me pass,’ cried O’Shea.
‘Touch me if you dare; only lay one finger on me in my own house,’ said the fellow, and he grinned almost in his face as he spoke.