CHAPTER XV
THE LIFE STORY OF TOM GLENDINNING
During one of the long rides which Wilfred was obliged to take from time to time with Tom Glendinning, it occurred to him to ask about his previous history. The old man was unusually well; that is, free from rheumatism and neuralgia. The demons which tortured his irritable temper were at rest. For a wonder, Tom was communicative.
‘Sure there’s little use in knowin’ the finds and the kills and blank days of a toothless old hound like meself. I’m broken-mouthed enough to know better; but the oulder some gets, the wickeder they are. Maybe it’s because there’s little hope for them. I was born in the north of Ireland, where my people was dacent enough. Linen factories they had—no less. My great grandfather came from Scotland, my father was dead, and my uncle that I lived with was the sourest old miser that ever the Black North turned out. I was a wild slip of a youngster always, like a hawk among barn-door fowl. My mother came from the West. It was her blood I had, and it ran too free and merry in thim days. She was dead too, but I loved her people. I liked the sporting notions of ’em, and took to their ways, their fights, their fairs and the very brogue, just to spite my uncle and his canting breed.
‘I hated everything they liked, and liked everything they hated. I was flogged and locked up for runnin’ away from school. Why should I stay in and larn out of a dog’s-eared book when the hounds met within five Irish miles of me? I was always with them when I could slip off—sleepin’ in the stables, helpin’ the grooms, doin’ anything so they’d let me stay about the stables and kennel. I could ride any hunter they had at exercise and knew every fox-covert in the neighbourhood, every hare’s form, besides being able to tie a fly and snare rabbits. When I was twelve years old I ran away and made my way down to Mayo, to my mother’s people—God be with them all their days! I was happy then.’
‘I suppose you were, indeed,’ said Wilfred.
‘Why wouldn’t I be? My mother’s brother was but a small farmer, but he was a king’s ayqual for kind-heartedness, divilment and manliness. He could follow the hounds on foot for a ten-mile run. He was the best laper, wrestler, hurler, and stick-fighter in the barony. The sort of man I could have died for. More by token, he took to me at once when I stumbled in sore-footed and stiff like a stray puppy. I was the “white-headed boy” for my dead mother’s sake.’
‘You had all you could wish for, then.’
‘I had. I was a fool, too, but sure I didn’t know it. ’Tis that same makes all the differ. The Squire took a fancy to me, after I rode a five-year-old for him over the ox-fences one day. I was made dog-boy, afterwards third whip; and sure, when I had on the cord breeches and the coat with the hunt button, I was prouder than the king. There was no divilment in all the land I wasn’t in; but I didn’t drink in thim days, and I knew my work well. Whin I was twenty-two a fit took me to go to Belfast and see the ould place again.’
‘Did you wish to ask for your uncle’s blessing?’
‘Not if I was stritched for it! But my cousin Mary! sure I could never get her out of my head, and thim black eyes of hers. She kissed me the night I ran away, and the taste of her lips and the sweet look of her eyes could never lave me. I can see her face now. I wonder where is she? And will I see her again when I go to my place!’