We followed him into a back parlour, where there were several wooden rocking-chairs, and a strong smell of stale tobacco. Here he busied himself in producing cold meat, a squash pie, and a bottle of whisky, and was as voluble as civil about every subject except the one I wished to talk of. But the memory of his mother was strong upon me, and I had no intention of letting it slide.
“I’m so glad to have found you,” I said. “I am
sure you can’t have known what a trouble it has been to your mother never to have heard from you all these years.”
“Arrah! And why should she bother herself over me?” he answered impatiently. “Sure I never was anything but a trouble to her, worse luck!” And before I could speak again, he went on. “But make your mind aisy, I’ll be writing to her. Many’s the time that I’ve all but indited the letter, but I’ll do it now. Upon me conscience, ye may dipind upon me.”
Could I depend upon his shambling conscience? Every instinct of an honest man about me answered, No. As he had done for fifteen years past, so he would do for fifteen years to come. As long as he was comfortable himself, his mother would never get a line out of him. Perhaps his voice recalled hers, but I almost fancied I could hear her as I sat there.—“I ax your pardon, darlin’. It was my own Micky that was on my mind.”
“Look here, Mr. Macartney,” said I; “I want you to do me a favour. I owe your mother a good turn, and it’ll ease my mind to repay it. Sit down whilst we’re enjoying your hospitality, and just write her a line, and let me have the pleasure of finding a stamp and putting it in the post with my own hands.”
We argued the point for some time, but Micky found the writing materials at last, and sat down to
write. As he proceeded he seemed to become more reconciled to the task; though he was obviously no great scribe, and followed the sentiments he was expressing with curious contortions of his countenance which it was most funny to behold. By and by I was glad to see a tear or two drop on to the paper, though I was sorry that he wiped them up with his third finger, and wrote over the place before it had time to dry.
“Murther and ages! But it’s mighty pleased that she’ll be,” said Mr. Macartney when he had finished. He looked mighty pleased with himself, and he held the letter out to me.
“Do you mean me to read it?” I asked.