“No, Master Dandy—it ain’t clear. I don’t leave your service—now, most of all—not if you was to kick me, like a dog, from your doors.” He spoke in a hurried, breathless whisper, and, to the utter bewilderment and amazement of Philip Chater, his eyes—full of some mute appeal—had tears in them.
Baffled in earnest now, Philip Chater, after looking at Harry for a moment or two in perplexity, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. But he had no stomach for the drink the girl had prepared for him; avoiding her eyes, he paid for it, and, without looking at either of them, walked out of the place.
He felt that some mystery was brooding, behind the extraordinary attitude of his young servant. Remembering the girl’s mention of him in the wood, he felt that mere foolish jealousy was at the bottom of the matter; and, knowing that this was one of the difficult legacies left behind by the late Dandy Chater, he accepted it philosophically. At the same time, he was puzzled at the young man’s last remark, and at the evident emotion he had displayed. Being in no mood to return to his solitary home, which seemed always full of unfamiliar ghosts of people he had never known, he struck off across some fields, and sat down on the felled trunk of a tree, and was soon lost in unprofitable dreaming.
He was roused from this, by hearing a footstep quite close to him; looking up, he saw the man from whom he had so recently parted. Anger at the thought of being followed, and spied upon, brought him hurriedly to his feet.
“What do you want? What right have you to follow me, in this fashion? I suppose you’ve come to plead something, in extenuation of your rudeness—eh?” he exclaimed. “I’ll hear nothing—I’ve nothing to say to you.”
He turned away angrily, and walked a half-dozen paces; twisted on his heel, and came back again. Harry had not moved; he stood, with his hands clasped tightly together before him, and with his head bowed on his breast. When he spoke, his voice was low, and had a curious mournful ring in it, that struck upon his listener’s heart like a knell.
“Master Dandy—I’m only a common country lad, that’s seen nothing of the great world, and knows but little of the rights or wrongs of things, more than whatever good God put in my heart can teach me. But I’ve only known one life, Master Dandy—and that’s you!”
He took a half step forward, and stretched out his clasped hands, in mute appeal—dropping them again the next moment. Philip Chater—humbled and awed by the pathetic dignity of the lad—was silent.
“The first thing I remember, Master Dandy, was having you pointed out to me, on your pony, as the young Squire; I used to go out of my way, to watch you cantering along the roads. Then, afterwards, when you took notice of me, and wouldn’t have any one else near you, and made me your servant, I was prouder than I can ever express. God forgive me—(but there’s no blasphemy in it, Master Dandy)—you were my God to me—my everything! I think I would have been glad to let you thrash me, as you did your dogs, if I could have thought it would please you.”
Philip Chater found his voice at last—although it was rather an unsteady one. “Well,” he said, with what brusqueness he could muster—“what has all this to do with the matter?”