Dolly had said that he was shabby—but the man was altered rather than shabby. He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his shirt, and a jewelled pin in his cravat;—but he had shaven off his moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hangdog look about him. “I’ve got something that I particularly want to say to you, my Lord.” Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain from offering him a chair.
“Well;—you can say it now.”
“Yes;—but it isn’t so very easy to be said. There are some things, though you want to say them ever so, you don’t quite know how to do it.”
“You have your choice, Major Tifto. You can speak or hold your tongue.”
Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge sat with his hands in his pockets trying to look unconcerned. “But if you’ve got it here, and feel it as I do,”—the poor man as he said this put his hand upon his heart—“you can’t sleep in your bed till it’s out. I did that thing that they said I did.”
“What thing?”
“Why, the nail! It was I lamed the horse.”
“I am sorry for it. I can say nothing else.”
“You ain’t so sorry for it as I am. Oh no; you can never be that, my Lord. After all, what does it matter to you?”
“Very little. I meant that I was sorry for your sake.”
“I believe you are, my Lord. For though you could be rough you was always kind. Now I will tell you everything, and then you can do as you please.”
“I wish to do nothing. As far as I am concerned the matter is over. It made me sick of horses, and I do not wish to have to think of it again.”
“Nevertheless, my Lord, I’ve got to tell it. It was Green who put me up to it. He did it just for the plunder. As God is my judge it was not for the money I did it.”
“Then it was revenge.”
“It was the devil got hold of me, my Lord. Up to that I had always been square—square as a die! I got to think that your Lordship was upsetting. I don’t know whether your Lordship remembers, but you did put me down once or twice rather uncommon.”
“I hope I was not unjust.”
“I don’t say you was, my Lord. But I got a feeling on me that you wanted to get rid of me, and I all the time doing the best I could for the ’orses. I did do the best I could up to that very morning at Doncaster. Well;—it was Green put me up to it. I don’t say I was to get nothing; but it wasn’t so much more than I could have got by the ’orse winning. And I’ve lost pretty nearly all that I did get. Do you remember, my Lord,”—and now the Major sank his voice to a whisper—“when I come up to your bedroom that morning?”
“I remember it.”
“The first time?”
“Yes; I remember it.”
“Because I came twice, my Lord. When I came first it hadn’t been done. You turned me out.”
“That is true, Major Tifto.”
“You was very rough then. Wasn’t you rough?”
“A man’s bedroom is generally supposed to be private.”
“Yes, my Lord—that’s true. I ought to have sent your man in first. I came then to confess it all, before it was done.”
“Then why couldn’t you let the horse alone?”
“I was in their hands. And then you was so rough with me! So I said to myself I might as well do it;—and I did it.”
“What do you want me to say? As far as my forgiveness goes, you have it!”
“That’s saying a great deal, my Lord—a great deal,” said Tifto, now in tears. “But I ain’t said it all yet. He’s here; in London!”
“Who’s here?”
“Green. He’s here. He doesn’t think that I know, but I could lay my hand on him tomorrow.”
“There is no human being alive, Major Tifto, whose presence or absence could be a matter of more indifference to me.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, my Lord. I’ll go before any judge, or magistrate, or police-officer in the country, and tell the truth. I won’t ask even for a pardon. They shall punish me and him too. I’m in that state of mind that any change would be for the better. But he—he ought to have it heavy.”
“It won’t be done by me, Major Tifto. Look here, Major Tifto; you have come here to confess that you have done me a great injury?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And you say you are sorry for it.”
“Indeed I am.”
“And I have forgiven you. There is only one way in which you can show your gratitude. Hold your tongue about it. Let it be as a thing done and gone. The money has been paid. The horse has been sold. The whole thing has gone out of my mind, and I don’t want to have it brought back again.”
“And nothing is to be done to Green!”
“I should say nothing—on that score.”
“And he has got they say five-and-twenty thousand pounds clear money.”
“It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. I will have nothing further to do with it. Of course I cannot bind you, but I have told you my wishes.” The poor wretch was silent, but still it seemed as though he did not wish to go quite yet. “If you have said what you have got to say, Major Tifto, I may as well tell you that my time is engaged.”
“And must that be all?”
“What else?”
“I am in such a
