‘There was a grand scene, ’twas always said, when he brings her home after their furrin’ tower, an’ one night, bein’ merry wiv his bottle, he forgets hissel’, an’ swears at her before company. Up she gets swiftly, pale, but determined, an’ leanin’ a wee bit ower the table she speaks straight at him. “Tom,” she says, “you forget yourself; and until you apologize to me for your rudeness I’ll sit no more at table wi’ ye,” an’ oot she gans frae the dining-room, haughty as the Queen in Scripture, leavin’ the Squire gapin’ an’ speechless, never havin’ been treated that fashion before.
‘There was two or three other men wiv him dinin’ that night, an’ on they sat drinkin’ steadily, the Squire in a towerin’ temper aal the while, noo damnin’ hissel’, next cursin’ his neighbour, an’ backin’ his horses, an’ hawks, an’ hissel’, wi’ gun an’ rod, against anyone, or the lot o’ them together.
‘They tried to soothe him a bit, but the mair they tried the hotter he got, an’ had the Pope hissel’ been his visitor that night, Squire Tom would have d——d him too, an’ been glad o’ the opportunity. After a bit mair snarling an’ sneerin’, an’ snappin’ he sits quiet for a while, then he glares round at his guest friends, an’ he cries:
‘“Ye’re nowt better than a lot o’ ‘momenty morries,’”—meanin’ skeletons, ye ken—“the wife’s worth the whole boilin’ o’ ye, an’ I’m d——d if I don’t apologize,” an’ he glared round to see if anyone would dare laugh at him for’t; but no one spoke save a little fam’ly lawyer chap, up for the night frae the toon, an’ he chirrups up an’ he says, “Qui’ right, qui’ right,” he hiccoughs, an’ the Squire glares right through him as he growls, “When I ask ye for an opinion I pay ye for’t, but if ye advise me unasked again, I’ll fling ye oot at window,” he says.
‘Sae oot he strides into the hall, an’ cries up the stairs: “Nell, my lass, Nell, ho-way doon, an’ I’ll apologize to ye, ay, d——, I will,” an’ doon she comes, an’ on tiv his knees he gans, an’ she holds oot her hand, an’ the Squire he kisses it like a lover.
‘Well, she manages him clivvor, but in her first child-bed she was taken ill, poor lady, an’ dies vary shortly, leavin’ him wiv a baby girl.
‘After that the Squire was never the same man again. He turned reckless, for what was the use ov “a filly” to him, he says; an’ havin’ no son an’ heir to live an’ save for, he sets hissel’ to spend aal he can an’ spite his next o’ kin—a barrister chap in London toon, whom he hated for bein’ no sportsman—“a priest-faced, pauper chap iv a black gown an’ wig,” he called him, an’ no love was lost between the pair o’ them. He was a good bit older than the Squire, an’ had a largish fam’ly, the second son bein’ none other than Father Blenkinsop—the priest that’s just passed us by.
‘He was the only one the Squire could take up wi’ at aal, an’ as a boy he was often there for shootin’, an’ huntin’, an’ fishin’, though his father liked ill his bein’ there, for fear o’ his gettin’ into bad ways under the Squire’s guidance, who was gettin’ wilder an’ wilder wiv every year that passed. He was just a boy then, was Father Blenkinsop, havin’ left his schoolin’, an’ bein’ aboot to gan tiv a college to be turned into a Jesu-yte, an’ nowt pleased the Squire mair, after a long day’s huntin’ or hawkin’, than to fill the lad up wi’ liquor an’ sneer at religion, an’ Mass, an’ priests, an’ aal.
‘“Chuck it, my boy, chuck it,” he would say, clappin’ him on the shoulder, as he passed the bottle about. “Divv’nt put on the black petticoat; ye’re ower much ov a man for that. Ye can ride, an’ ye can shoot, an’ ye can look a gal i’ the face, an’ ye can crack a bottle, but if ye turn priest, ye’ll neither be man nor woman, but a —— bad mixture o’ both.”
‘So he would talk o’ nights, pourin’ oot his ribaldries an’ drinkin’ doon his wine, yet never gettin’ fair drunk; for he had a marvellous stomach for liquor, had the Squire—no butt o’ Malmsey wine could ever have drooned him, I’s warn’d—an’ the only way he betrayed himself was by gettin’ a bit hotter i’ the face an’ fiercer i’ his talk.