‘Sair hard,’ said Peebles; ‘but ye made it yoursel’, and ye hae nae right to grumble.’
‘It’s harder than I deserve,’ cried Kilpatrick. ‘If—if it was the—the just measure of punishment for—for that silly indiscretion of years ago, I should not complain, but——’
‘My lord!’ said Peebles, ‘dinna gang beyond God’s patience. “Just measure o’ punishment!” “too hard!” I wonder ye hae the presumption to sit in that chair, and talk to me that ken the circumstances.’
‘Hold your tongue, confound you!’ said his master.
‘That will I no’,’ returned Peebles, ’till as your speeritual weelwisher and your carnal servant I hae done my best to purge your heart o’ the black vanity ye cherish.’
‘Go to the devil, you canting old scoundrel!’ screamed Kilpatrick.
‘After your lordship,’ said Peebles suavely, and flowed on before the angry old gentleman could stop him. ‘You say your lot’s a hard one? You complain that Providence is punishing you too severely? Man, ye are just like a spoiled child, that sets a house afire in his wantonness, and then thinks he’s badly treated because he gets his fingers burnt. Your lot a hard one! What about the lot o’ the innocent lass that trusted ye, and that ye ruined and slew? What about the bright bonny lad that God put it into his mither’s heart to send here t’ ye, that should hae been a sound o’ peace in your ears, a light unto your eyes, a sermon to your understanding, ilka day this eighteen years bygone? What about his shame and anguish, his loss of respect and belief in all his kind, because you, the one man he loved and trusted most, turned to base metal in his sight? And ye are hardly treated! Gin ye had your deserts, Henry Conseltine, Lord Kilpatrick, ye’d be on the treadmill at this minute. There’s many an honester man than you that’s praying God this minute for bread and water to stay his carnal pangs, while ye sit here, full o’ meat, and puffed out wi’ idleness. Ill treated! Ma certie!’ cried the old man, with a fall from an almost Biblical solemnity of phrase to latter-day colloquialism which would have seemed ludicrous to any third person. ‘Ye’re no blate! Perhaps ye’d like a step up in the peerage for havin’ ruined an honest lassie and broken a poor lad’s heart?’
‘Upon my soul,’ said Kilpatrick, twisting in his chair, ‘I don’t know why I stand your infernal impudence.’
‘For the same reason,’ returned Peebles, ‘that you stand the infernal impudence o’ your ain conscience. Ye’ve been trying to drug and bully that into quiet a’ these years, and ye’ve no succeeded yet, and ne’er will, the Lord be praised! Ye ask,’ he continued, ‘if Desmond’s on his high horse yet? Ay, is he—on a higher horse than ever.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kilpatrick.