‘I did thin; and why wouldn’t I, if it was my own? It was asy made in thim days; the country was worth living in,—not like now, overstocked with “jimmies” and foreign trash.’
‘You sent that money, as I was informed,’ continued the Major, persistently unheeding the old man’s petulance, ‘for the benefit of a child, a nephew of your own, whom you desired to provide for?’
‘Nephew be hanged! The boy was my son, Owen Walter Glendinning by name. Maybe he’s dead and gone this many a day, for I niver heard tale or tidings of him since. It’s as well for him and betther. ’Tis little use I see in draggin’ on life in this world at all, unless you’ve great luck intirely. But what call have ye to be cross-examinin’ me—like a lawyer—about my family affairs, and what makes the colour lave yer face like a dead man’s? Who are ye at all?’
‘I am Owen Walter Glendinning! It was for me that your money was used. I am—your—son!’
As he spoke an ashen hue overspread the bronzed cheek, and the strong man swayed in his saddle as if he would have fallen to the ground. His lips were clenched, and every feature bore the impress of the agony that strains nature’s every capacity. As for the spectators, they looked upon the actors in this life drama, of which the catastrophe had been so unexpectedly sprung upon them, with silent respect accorded to those beyond human aid. Words would have been worse than useless. They could but look, but sit motionless on their horses, but school every feature to passive recipiency, until the end should come.
‘God in Heaven!’ cried the old man; ‘do you tell me so? May the tongue be blistered that spoke the word! It was a lie I tould you—lies—lies—I tell ye; sure ye don’t belave a word of it?’
Then he looked at the despairing face of the soldier with wistful entreaty and bitter regret, piteous to behold.
‘It is too late; it is useless to declare that you misled me. You have betrayed the truth, which in pity for my unworthy pride you attempt to conceal.’
‘It’s all a lie—a lie—a hellish lie!’ screamed the old man, transported with rage and regret. ‘What you, my son! You! Major Glendinning, a fine gintleman, and a soldier every inch of ye, the ayquals of the best gintry in the land and they proud of ye, the son of a drunken old convict stock-rider! I tell ye it can’t be. I swear it’s a lie. I knew the man ye spake of. He’s dead now, but he was book-larned and come of an old family. I heard tell of his sending home money to his nephew in the North, and our names being the same I just said it out of divilment. Sure I’d cut my throat if I thought I’d be the manes of harmin’ ye. Why don’t ye curse me? Why don’t ye tell thim gintlemen I’m a lyin’ old villain? They know me well. Here, I’ll swear on my bended knees, by the blessed Virgin and all the saints, there’s no word of truth in what I said.’
As old Tom raved, implored, and blasphemed, cursing at once his own folly and evil hap, his face writhed with the working of inward feeling. His features were deadly pale, well-nigh livid; the tears ran down his furrowed cheeks, while his eyes blazed with an unearthly light. As he fell on his knees and commenced his oath of renunciation the calm tones of the Major were again heard.