‘Hush, Tom,’ said his employer. ‘We can understand Major Glendinning’s feelings. But, after all, it is his duty to acknowledge the ties of nature. I have no doubt that after a time he will become—er—used to the relationship.’
‘D——n the relationship!’ burst out the old man menacingly. ‘Ah, an’ sure I ax yer pardon, yer honour, for the word; but ’tis wild I am that the Major, a soldier and a rale gintleman every inch of him, that’s fought for the Queen and skivered them infernal blackamoors in the Injies, should be given out as the son of a blasted ould rapparee like me. It was asy knowing when I seen that look on him when he heard the name, but how could I drame that my son could have turned into a king’s officer—all as one as the best of the land? If I had known it for sartain, before he axed me, I’d have lived beside him as a common stock-rider for years, if he’d come here, and he’s niver have known no more than the dead. It’s a burning shame and a sin, that’s what it is!’
‘It may have been unfortunate,’ said Mr. Effingham; ‘but I can never regard it as wrong that a father and a son should come to know of the tie which binds them to each other.’
‘And why not, I ask ye?’ demanded the old man savagely. ‘What good has it done aither of us? It’s sent him back, with a sore heart, to live among them black divils and snakes and tigers, a murdtherin’ hot counthry it is by all accounts, when he might have bought a place handy here and bred horses and cattle—sure he’s an iligant rider and shoots beautiful, don’t he now? I wonder did he take them gifts after me?’ said the old man, with the first softened expression and a half sigh. ‘Sure, if I could have plazed myself with lookin’ at him and he not to know, I wouldn’t say but that I might have listened to Parson Sternworth and—and—repinted,—yes, repinted,—after all that’s come and gone! And now I’m on the ould thrack agin, with tin divils tearin’ at me, and who knows what will happen.’
‘There’s no need for you to lead a wandering life, or indeed, to work at all, even if you leave the district,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I have a sum in my hands, forwarded by the Major, sufficient for all your wants.’
‘I’ll not touch a pinny of it!’ cried out the old man; ‘sure it’s blood money, no less, his life, anyway, that will pay for this! Didn’t I see his eye, when he shook hands with me, and begged my pardon for his pride, and asked me to bless him—me!’—and here the old man laughed derisively, a sound not pleasant to hear. ‘If there’s fighting where he’s going, and he lives out the year, it will be because lead and cowld steel has no power to harm a man that wants to die. Mr. Effingham, I’ll never touch it; and why would I? Sure the drink’ll kill me, fast enough, without help.’
‘But why go away? I am so grieved that, after your faithful service, you should leave in such a state of mind.’
‘Maybe I’ll do ye more sarvice before I die, but I must get into the far-out runs, or I’ll go mad thinking of him. It was my hellish timper that let the words out so quick, or he’d never have known till his dying day. Maybe the rheumatiz was to blame, that keeps burning in the bones of me like red-hot iron, till I couldn’t spake a civil word to the blessed Saviour Himself. Anyhow, it’s done now; but of all I ever did—and there’s what would hang me on the list—I repint over that, the worst, and will till I die. Good-bye, sir. God bless the house, and thim that’s in it.’
The old man remounted his wayworn steed with more agility than his appearance promised, and taking the track which led southward, went slowly along the road without turning his head or making further speech. The dog rose to his feet and trotted after him. In a few moments the characteristic trio passed from sight.
‘Mysterious indeed are the ways of Providence!’ thought Effingham, as he turned towards the house. ‘Who would ever have thought that the fortunes of this strange old man would ever have been associated with me or mine. I feel an unaccountable presentiment, as if this incident, inexplicable as it is, were but the forerunner of evil!’