‘That’s enough! You are out of my service, Peebles, from this moment—I discharge you!’
‘I’m agreeable,’ said Peebles, with unmoved calm.
‘And without a character—mind that!’
‘Character, is it?’ said the dour old Scot. ‘If ever I need one, I’ll gang till a God-fearing man, and no’ till your father’s son. Good-afternoon to your lordship.’ Peebles had reached the door when his lordship’s voice arrested him:
‘Stay—stay! I—ha!—I command you!’ ‘Too late!’ said Peebles coolly. ‘I’m no longer at your lordship’s orders—I’m discharged.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Why do you provoke me, Peebles? I have been a good master to you—a forbearing master. If we parted I should—I should miss you.’
‘No doot o’ that,’ returned Peebles, smiling. ‘Dismiss me, and ye dismiss your conscience. Dismiss me, and the Deil has ye, tooth and nail.’
His lordship laughed, but with no aspect of enjoyment.
‘You’re an assuming old scoundrel, Peebles. My conscience? Gad!—my conscience, indeed!’
‘Ay, and your conscience says, “Make amends to your own begotten son, the bairn of the puir lass who died for your sake, and who loved ye, Lord Kilpatrick.”’