It was late in the forenoon of the same day when Mr. Blake rose from his bed in the tenement to which he gave the sonorous and impressive title of Blake’s Hall—a tumbledown hut of two stories, which long years of neglect had reduced to a condition of almost complete ruin. The ground-floor was occupied by Blake himself; the upper portion by an ancient peasant woman, who acted as his cook, housemaid, caterer, and general factotum. There was not a whole pane of glass or an unbroken article of furniture in the whole building, and the little plot of ground in which it stood was a wilderness of stones and weeds.
Biddy was made aware of her employer’s awakening in the fashion familiar to her for years past—by his roaring at the full stretch of his lungs for a draught of whisky. That draught despatched, he arose, and proceeded with shaking limbs to shave and dress. He was still occupied with his toilet when the voice of the elder Conseltine was heard in the outer room.
‘Give him a glass of punch,’ Blake called out to Biddy. ‘I’ll be with him in the squazing of a lemon. So,’ he continued, reeling out of his bedroom a minute later, ‘ye’ve brought the cub with ye, though I forbade ye.’
Richard, sullenly flicking at his boot with his riding-whip, looked at Blake from under his lowering eyebrows, but took no further heed of his ambiguous welcome. Blake unsteadily poured out a second bumper of spirit, and the glass rattled against his teeth as he drained it.
‘And what’s the news with his lordship this day?’ he asked.
‘Still very ill,’ answered Conseltine.
‘He’s been upset by that old fool Peebles, who’s been hammering at him all day long to recall that brat of a by-love of his.’
‘Faith!’ returned Blake, ‘and he might do worse, by a great deal. ’Tis a fine lad, Desmond, as clever and handsome as that cub of yours is stupid and ugly. Don’t stand there, ye imp of perdition, glowering at me like a ghost. Sit down and drink like a Christian.’
Richard obeyed a scarcely perceptible motion of his father’s eyebrows, sat at the battered table, and poured out for himself a glass of whisky, to which he put his lips with an awkward affectation of goodfellowship.
‘Have ye got that two hundred pounds?’ asked Blake.
‘I have,’ said Conseltine; ‘I’ve brought it with me.’
He unbuttoned his coat, and took a bundle of bank papers from the inner breast-pocket. Blake took it with shaking hands, and rammed it in a crumpled mass into his breeches pocket without counting.
‘You’re as good as your word, Dick Conseltine, for once in your life,’ said he. ‘Have another drink.’
Conseltine profited by Blake raising his glass to his lips to fling the contents of the tumbler which Biddy had filled for him on to the earthen floor of the hut, and filled it again, principally with water.
‘Why,’ said Blake, ‘ye’re gettin’ friendly and neighbourly in your old age. Ye’ll be a dacent man before ye die, if ye live long enough.’
‘Blake,’ said Conseltine, ‘I want to talk to you. Did ye ever think of emigration?’
‘Did I ever think o’what?’ asked Blake, pausing with his tumbler half-way to his lips.
‘Emigration,’ repeated Conseltine.
‘I never did,’ returned Blake. ‘Why would I?’
‘Well,’ said his companion, ‘there are many reasons why ye might think of it. Ye’re just spoiling here—wasting yourself. If ye’d go out West, a man of your abilities, with a little capital, would do well. Land and hiring are cheap; it’s a lovely climate, and there are no end of chances of making money. I’ll tell ye what, now. ’Tis a sin and a shame to see a man like you wasting yourself in this cursed country. I’ll make that two hundred five, and pay your passage out, if ye’ll take the next steamer to New York.’
‘By the saints!’ cried Blake, ‘ye’re mighty generous all of a sudden. Ye want to get rid of me? Spake the truth, now, isn’t that it?’
‘Well,’ said Conseltine, with a great appearance of candour, ‘that is it! I’d rather have you out of the country. You’re dangerous here, Blake—dangerous to us and to yourself.’
‘To myself!’ echoed Blake. ‘And how am I dangerous to meself?’
‘Ye’ll be splitting some day on a certain matter that we know of—easy now, we needn’t name names—and if ye did speak, ’twould be worse for you than for us.’
‘Make that good,’ said Blake.
‘Well,’ said Conseltine, ‘you’d very likely get a sum of money down from the other parties; but that once spent—ye’d get no more, and you’d spend the rest of your days in an Irish gaol. Now, so long as you’re faithful to our cause, you know you have a faithful friend in me. I’ll give ye five hundred down to go to America, and another two hundred a year as long as you live. Don’t answer now,’ he continued, as Blake opened his lips to speak. ‘Think it over, and I’m sure ye’ll see things as I see them, and admit that it’s best for you to be out of the way of temptation.’
Blake swallowed another tumbler of punch.
‘’Tis a mighty fine idea,’ he said thoughtfully, with a thickening of the voice which showed that he was fast nearing his normal pitch of intoxication. He rubbed his head dubiously, and, to clear his wits, poured out and drank a half-glass of neat whisky. ‘Leave my ancestral possessions! Desert Blake’s Hall! What are ye grinning at, ye thief of darkness?’ he demanded angrily of Richard, who had glanced round the barren room with a smile of pitying contempt; then he lurched forward in his chair, with bloodshot eyes glaring at Conseltine, who, having thrown away his second glass of whisky, filled a third. ‘Tell me, now,’ he said, ‘is the whisky good out there?’
Conseltine smiled and nodded.
‘Well,’ said Blake, ‘an Irish gentleman ought to travel. Five hundred pounds, ye said?’ Conseltine nodded again. ‘Five hundred on the nail, and two hundred a year for life?’ Conseltine nodded a third time. ‘Hand over the bottle,’ said Blake. ‘’Twill take a dale o’ whisky to settle this question.’
His wavering hand had scarcely steered his glass to his mouth, when a hurried step was heard in the garden, and a moment later the lawyer Feagus burst into the room, panting and perspiring. Blake stared at him for a moment without recognising him, and then rose, with the obvious intention of falling foul of this unwelcome visitor.
‘Hold him back!’ cried Feagus. ‘Hold him back, for the love of heaven!’
‘Ye sneaking coward!’ cried Blake, trying to get past Conseltine. ‘How dare ye intrude into my apartments? I’ll have your life!’
Feagus, who, under ordinary circumstances, would have at once accepted the challenge, once more called to Conseltine to keep Blake back, and, unbidden, filled and drank a glass of spirits.
‘I’ve no time to waste withyou, Mr. Blake. I’ve news, Mr. Conseltine; we’re cooked entirely!’
Conseltine thrust Blake into his chair, and turned.
‘What d’ye mean?’ he asked.
‘Moya Macartney’salive!’ cried the lawyer.
Conseltine staggered as if he had been shot, and Blake, who had risen to his feet to make a rush at Feagus, checked himself, and stood still, swaying heavily on his feet, as he glared at the bearer of this extraordinary news.
‘Are ye mad or drunk?’ asked Conseltine, with an ashen face.
‘I’m neither, sir,’ answered Feagus. ‘God be good to me, I’m too sober for my pace of mind! I tell ye Moya Macartney’s alive. I’ve seen her.’
Conseltine stared at him like a man newly awakened from a nightmare, as he went on: ‘’Twas last night, in the churchyard down by the lake. I was passin’ by, and I saw a woman standing there among the graves, and old Peebles coming along the road. Thinks I, “I’ll have a fine story to tell my lord next time I dine with him,” and I just slipped behind a gravestone and listened. He didn’t know her till shetoldhim who she was—Moya Macartney, who’s been drowned and in her grave this eighteen years! Holy Moses! I’m wringing wet only to think of it!’
‘Get on, man, get on!’ said Conseltine hoarsely.
‘I kept as still as death,’ continued Feagus, ‘though ’twas all I could do to hold meself from cryin’ out when I heard her say “I’m Moya Macartney.” Then she went on to say that she’d come back to the old place to see the boy, and at that very minute he kem along the road singin’.’
‘Desmond?’ cried Conseltine.
‘Desmond himself,’ said the lawyer. ‘Peebles cried out to him, and he comes into the churchyard and talks with Moya.’ ‘For God’s sake go on,’ cried Conseltine; ‘what did they say?’
‘She never let on who she was. She said she was a poor wandering creature who wanted to give him her blessin’. And she did; and she cried, and he cried, and Peebles cried, and I was near cryin’ meself,—it was so affectin’!’
‘Well?’ said Conseltine. ‘And what was the upshot of it all?’
‘Faith, there was no upshot at all,’ said Feagus. ‘The boy went away no worse than he kem, promisin’ not to lave the district till he’d seen ould Peebles once more.’
‘If this is true——’ cried Conseltine, shaken out of his ordinary cynical calm by the news; then he stopped short, staring before him with a haggard face.
‘True, is it?’ cried Feagus. ‘Go and see for yourself. She’s staying incog, at Larry’s mill.’
‘And Peebles knows it,’ said Conseltine. ‘By Heaven! I thought something had happened. The old rascal’s been going about all day long as full o’ mystery as an egg’s full o’ meat. If Henry hears of this!’ ‘He won’t yet awhile,’ returned Feagus. ‘She swore Peebles to silence till she hersilf gave him leave to speak.’
‘My God!’ said Conseltine, scarcely above his breath. ‘What’s to be done? We’re standing on a mine of gunpowder while that woman’s in the district.’
Blake laughed. He had been as much astonished at the first hearing of the news as either of his companions, but by this time had shaken himself back into his usual condition of half-sodden, half-ferocious humour.
‘Faith,’ said he, ‘’tis a case of the divil among the tailors. By the Lord, Conseltine, but things are looking mighty quare. I’m thinkin’ I won’t emigrate just yet. Sure, I’ll stop and see the fun! There’ll be great doin’s at the Castle by-and-by, I’m thinkin’.’
He laughed again, and drank another glass of whisky.
Conseltine took no notice of the interruption, which he seemed scarcely to hear.
‘What are ye goin’ to do, sir?’ asked Feagus.
‘I don’t know yet,’ answered Conseltine slowly. He sat down, and leant his head upon his hand, Feagus and Richard watching him keenly. ‘She’s living at Larry’s mill, you say?’ he said presently, without raising his eyes from the floor.
‘At Larry’s mill,’ repeated Feagus. ‘She’s living all alone, under a false name, at that ould antiquated rat-trap.’
‘Alone?’ repeated Conseltine meaningly.
‘Alone!’ repeated Feagus.
‘It’s ruin,’ said Conseltine, looking up,—‘it’s ruin for all of us if we don’t get that woman out of the way.’
‘Bedad it is, then,’ said Feagus. His pale face went whiter as he looked from Conseltine to Richard, and then back again, before stealing a look at Blake, who, with his chin propped in his hands and his elbows on the table, followed their dialogue as well as his muddled wits would allow, with his habitual expression of dogged humour slightly deepened. ‘See here, now,’ continued the lawyer; ‘we’re all friends here. The danger’s pressin’, and what’s goin’ to be done has got to be done quick.’
Conseltine’s generally smooth and expressionless face was as a book in which he read strange matter. Richard’s heavy hangdog countenance was white with rage and distorted with apprehension. Blake was the only one of the trio who preserved anything like his customary appearance.
‘I was thinking,’ said Feagus, ‘as I came along, unless—you see now, the mill’s a mighty old place, worm-eaten and dry as tinder, and if—by an accident intirely—in the night, when there’s nobody about to render help—a stray spark’d do it, for there’s hay and sthraw scattered all round convanient—and if—of course by accident—the old place were to catch fire, powers alive! wouldn’t it be an odd happening? and if it did, what fault o’ yours or mine would it be, and who’d be the wiser?’
‘God in heaven!’ cried Blake, rising to his feet, ‘’tis murder ye mean! Now, mark me, Conseltine, I’ll be no party to this. The curses of the son, the remorse of the old lord, and the spirit of that poor woman, would haunt me to me grave. I’ll have neither art nor part in such a plan.’
‘Of course not,’ said Conseltine, turning his white face from the last speaker to Feagus. ‘It’s only Feagus’s fun!’
Feagus, looking at him, read more in his glance than could Blake and Richard, from both of whom his face was hidden. What it was he did not yet know, but in the score of years during which he had known Conseltine, he had never seen in his eyes such an expression.
‘We must find legal means,’ Conseltine continued. ‘Good-day, Blake; you’ll think of what I said to ye just now?’ Except for an added shade of gloom, for which Feagus’s news of the presence of Moya Macartney in the countryside would quite well have accounted, his face now was the face of every day. ‘I’ll see ye again before long. Come, Dick; come, Feagus.’
The three left the hut.
‘By the powers!’ said Blake, as he filled his seventh glass that day, ‘if the divil wants a fourth he’ll have to comein propria personahimself an’ join them. I’m more than half inclined to take Dick Conseltine’s offer, and go across the water. Your sins are finding ye out, Pat Blake. You’ve lived on his money for years past; ’twould be shabby conduct if ye turned on him now. But then, there’s Moya. Poor colleen! Eh, the handsome slip of a girl she was—a long sight too good for Kilpatrick, and ’twas I that ruined her—or helped. And the boy? A fine lad, that; a handsome lad. Sure, many a time I’ve seen his mother lookin’ out of his eyes at me, and heard her spake to me wid his voice. Ah, be damn’d to me, now, I’m gettin’ ould and crazy! ’tis an ould story—eighteen years ago. You might have got used to the thought of it by now, Pat Blake. Put more of the right stuff into ye, and forget it.’
He obeyed his own prescription so promptly that, half an hour after his guests had left him, he fell into a sodden sleep, with his head upon the table.
Conseltine and his two companions had meantime walked on at a rapid pace, and in dead silence, for the first half-mile. It was Conseltine who was the first to speak.
‘That’s a good idea of yours, Feagus.’
‘It would be,’ responded the lawyer, ‘if it were not for that cowardly drunken villain, who stops us puttin’ it into execution.’
‘But he won’t,’ said the other. ‘My mind’s made up. It’s that or nothing.’
‘But if he splits?’ said Richard.
‘Split!’ repeated Conseltine. ‘The job once done, he has my leave to split as wide as the Liffey. It’s one oath against three—the oath of a drunken blackguard and beggar against the oaths of three men of substance and position.’
‘And sure that’s true,’ said Feagus. ‘By the Lord, Mr. Conseltine, ye should have taken to our profession. Ye’d have been an honour to it.’
‘Besides,’ said Conseltine, ‘he’llnotsplit. He has his own skin to save, and he’s as deep in the mud as we are in the mire.’ He paused, and looked round cautiously. The plain stretched to the mountains on the one side and the sea on the other, empty of any possible observer. ‘We mustn’t be seen together,’ continued Conseltine. ‘We’d better separate here. But before we part, we’ll just arrange the details.’
The shades of evening were beginning to envelop the landscape as Peebles made his slow and toilsome way towards Blake’s Hall. The old man had been in a ferment of excitement all day long, and nothing but his long years of habit as chief officer and general director of Lord Kilpatrick’s household had sufficed to hold him back from fulfilling his momently recurring desire to throw his duties to the winds for that day, and at once proceed to put to Blake the question dictated to him by Moya Macartney. His discomposure had not escaped the notice of his master, who, since the shock occasioned by Desmond’s renunciation of him and his abrupt departure from the house, had kept his room, and had resented all approaches, even that of his favourite Dulcie, with an exaggeration of his usual snappish ill-temper.
‘What the deuce are you dreaming about, Peebles?’ he had asked, as the old servitor made some slight blunder in the service at his master’s solitary dinner-table.
‘If ye had an inkling of what I am dreaming about,’ Peebles had responded, with his customary drawl, ‘ye’d be in nae such a hurry to speer, maybe.’
At which his lordship had muttered an angry ‘Pshaw!’ and turned his face away.
‘Is there any news of—of Desmond?’ he asked a minute later.
‘No, my lord,’ answered Peebles; ‘none that I ken o’.’
He was in so mortal a dread of prematurely letting slip the secret of Moya’s presence in the neighbourhood that he would not trust himself to approach the subject at all.
‘Where is he?’ asked Kilpatrick.
‘They say he’s at Doolan’s farm,’ answered Peebles.
‘They say!’ snapped his lordship. ‘As if you didn’t know where the boy is, you disingenuous old brute!’
‘Oh ay!’ said Peebles tranquilly. ‘Swear at me, wi’ a’ my heart, if it will ease your lordship’s heart, or your conscience.’
Kilpatrick pushed his plate aside.
‘Take these things away and bring the wine.’
Peebles obeyed, and filled his master’s glass, after which he lingered for a moment.
‘Well, Peebles, well? Have you anything to say?’
‘Just that I’m going oot for an hour or twa. I hae a visit to make. If ye want anything in my absence the flunkey will look after ye.’
‘Very good,’ answered Kilpatrick, who thought he knew the object of Peebles’ visit. ‘Peebles!’ he called, as the old man reached the door.
‘My lord!’
‘Has—has the boy any resources—any funds?’
‘Not that I ken o’,’ answered Peebles. ‘He was aye too open-handed.’
‘Well, if he wants money—he wouldn’t take it from me, I suppose—lend him what he asks, and look to me for repayment. There, there, that will do.’
Peebles saluted and retired, and set out half an hour later for Blake’s Hall. Entering the rude sitting-room, he made out, through the gathering shadows, the figure of Blake leaning on the table.
‘In his general condition, the drunken wastrel!’ said Peebles. ’Tis odd but he’s sae drunk he’ll not understand me when I speak to him. Mr. Blake! Mr. Blake!’ He shook the recumbent figure gently at first, and then more roughly, and at last elicited a husky growl. ‘Mr. Blake! Wake up, and speak to me. Man, I’ve news for ye, and a question to ask o’ ye. Wake up, wake up, for the love o’ Heaven!’
Blake swayed back in his seat and opened his eyes. His first act, half unconscious, was to hold out his hand towards the bottle, which Peebles snatched from him with the quickness of a conjurer.
‘Ye’ve had enough o’ that for one while, ye disgraceful object,’ he said. ‘Wake up, I tell ye! Wake up, and tell me what I want to know.’
‘Oh, ’tis you, Misther Peebles!’ cried Blake.
‘Ay, ’tis mysel’,’ returned Peebles. ‘I’ve news for ye, when ye’re sufficiently sober to hear it.’
Blake, like the practised toper he was, pulled himself together, and succeeded in looking solemnly and preternaturally sober.
‘We’re alone?’ asked the old Scot, glancing cautiously round.
‘We are,’ said Blake. ‘Biddy’s gone to the village for more whisky.’
‘Then listen,’ said Peebles. ‘Moya Macartney’s alive!’ He made the communication slowly and distinctly, and paused to mark its effect.
‘Bedad! that’s true!’ returned Blake, as calmly as if Peebles had said ‘Good-day.’ ‘Ye ken it!’ cried the old man. ‘And how the deil d’ye ken it?’
‘That’s my business, sir,’ said Blake. ‘Idoknow it. She was in the churchyard last night wid a Scotch gentleman of your acquaintance!’
It was difficult to throw Peebles off his mental balance for long at a time, and, surprised as he was at Blake’s knowledge of the interview of the preceding night, he went on with a perfect apparent calm:
‘Weel, it should lighten your heart! Ay! ye should fall on your knees and thank God, who’s kinder to ye than ye deserve, that ye have not that puir lassie’s death on your conscience!’
‘Have ye come here to preach?’ asked Blake.
‘Na, na!’ said Peebles. ‘That’s not my business, but it’s yours, Mr. Ryan O’Connor, if a’ tales are true!’
There could be no mistaking the effect of this speech on Blake. He half rose from his seat, clutching the sides of the table with trembling hands, and stared at Peebles with his eyes standing out of his head with surprise.
‘And how the thunder did you knowthat?’ he asked.
‘That’smybusiness,’ retorted the old Scotchman dryly.
‘Holy powers!’ muttered Blake, falling back into his chair, and passing his hand across his eyes in a bewildered fashion. ‘’Tis dreamin’ I am!’
‘Listen to me, Patrick Blake,’ said Peebles solemnly. ‘I met Moya Macartney last night. Poor lass! Her spirit’s sadly broken. Says she to me—“Peebles, it’s eighteen years since I spread the report of my own death; my hair is white, and my heart is broken; gang to Mr. Blake and ask him, as he values his own soul, to tell ye if ever he was in holy orders.”’
Blake breathed hard, staring at Peebles with a face gone white.
‘Answer!’ cried the old man, ‘and for God’s sake answer truly!’
‘Well, then,’ said Blake, ‘I was; but not when I married Moya Macartney to Lord Kilpatrick.’
‘Had they unfrocked ye?’ asked Peebles. ‘Tell me that!’
‘I’d unfrocked myself,’ answered Blake. ‘The Bishop said I was a disgrace and scandal to the Church, and took from me the only cure of souls I ever had.’
‘But at the time ye married Moya were ye drummed out o’ the Kirk?’
‘Devil the drum about it,’ responded Blake. ‘The Bishop persuaded me to quit, so I just civilly retired. ’Twas convanient at the time, for sure I had creditors enough to man a Queen’s ship.’
‘But ye had been a priest, and properly ordained?’ asked Peebles.
‘Faith, I was as well ordained as any priest need be. What the divil’s the matter wid ye?’ he asked, as Peebles sprang from the seat he had taken and broke into a Highland fling. ‘Is it mad ye are?’
‘Clean daft wi’ joy!’ cried the old man. ‘Gie’s your hand, man!’ He seized Blake’s hand and wrung it heartily. ‘By the piper that played before Moses, ye’re the Reverend Mr. Blake still!—and by that same token Moya Macartney is Lady Kilpatrick, and Desmond Macartney is Desmond Consel-tine, his lordship’s son and heir!’
The mention of the name of Conseltine electrified Blake. He clutched his whisky-muddled head in both hands, staring wildly before him.
‘My God!’ he cried suddenly, ‘is it dreamin’ that I am? No, by the Lord, ’tis no dream, sir! Get up, man, get up! ’Tis no time to be sittin’ here! They mean mischief—already it may be too late!’
‘Too late! Too late for what?’ cried the old man.
‘Richard Conseltine and his boy, and Feagus the attorney—bad cess to the lot of ’em—were here this forenoon. They know Moya’s alive! They know where she lives! Oh, my head, my head! what was it the blackguards said? Ah!’ he screamed, ‘the mill! ’tis at Larry’s mill that Moya’s living!’
‘Yes!’ cried Peebles. ‘She’s there. But what of that? Speak, man! what is it?’
‘They mean to burn the mill, and her with it!’ cried Blake. ‘For the love o’ God, run and find Desmond, and get Moya out o’ the place. ’Twas here that they plotted it. Man alive, I believe they mean murder!’
‘Murder!’ gasped Peebles.
‘Isn’t it life or death to them to keep Moya out o’ the way? Run, man! Run every step o’ the road! Ye’ve time to save her yet. They daren’t try it before nightfall. Doolan’s farm is on the way, and ye’ll find Desmond there. If ever ye loved him, run!’
Peebles, knowing the men with whom he had to deal, needed no further warning, but after a few more hasty words with Blake, ran rather than walked from Blake’s Hall.
Peebles, though weary with his unwonted vigil in the early morning and the anxiety of the day, made good speed to Doolan’s farm, urged as he was by those most powerful of stimulants, love and fear. It was a long and rough road, but a younger and stronger man than the old Scot might have been satisfied with the speed at which he covered it. He arrived panting at the humble cabin, where the farmer and his family, with Desmond among them, were just sitting down to the plain but plentiful evening meal of potatoes and buttermilk, supplemented by a rasher of bacon in honour of the guest, whom Doolan felt a great pride in entertaining, and who would have found a welcome equally warm at almost any house in the district.
‘By my soul!’ said the hospitable farmer, as Peebles broke into the room and fell exhausted into the nearest chair; ‘’tis me lord’s butler—’tis Mr. Peebles! The top o’ the evening to ye, sor. Bridget, I’m thinkin’ Mr. Peebles will be takin’ a dhrop o’ whisky. Saints above! what’s wrong wi’ ye, sor?’
Peebles slowly panted his breath back, while the farmer and his wife—the latter a ruddy, handsome peasant woman, who had been Desmond’s nurse eighteen years before—stood solicitously over him.
‘Get the bottle, Bridget,’ said the farmer. ‘The poor gentleman’s clane blown.
Peebles took a mouthful of the liquor, and felt the better for it.
‘What is it at all?’ asked Desmond.
‘Faith, ye look as if you’d seen a ghost. What is it, old friend?’
‘You must come with me, Desmond,’ said the old man. ‘I’ve news for ye—news that will keep no longer.’
‘If ’tis good news,’ said Desmond, ‘sure ’tis welcome, and all the more welcome for being unexpected.’
‘Good!’ cried Peebles—‘it’s the best! It’s better than I ever dared to hope!’
‘Faith, then,’ returned the boy, ‘let’s have it!’
‘Not here, laddie, not here!’ said Peebles. ‘’Tis only in your private ear that I can whisper it yet.’
‘We’ll lave ye alone,’ said the honest farmer. ‘Come, Bridget; come, children.’
‘No, no!’ said Peebles. ‘I’ve no time to bide. Ye must come wi’ me, Desmond. It’s not a’ good news I bring ye. There’s danger near one ye love, laddie.’
‘Dulcie?’ cried Desmond.
‘No—Lady Dulcie’s safe, for a’ I ken, and I saw her not three hours syne, the bonnie doo, blooming like the rose o’ Sharon. Come, lad, put on your hat—I’m rested noo. We’ll gang together, and I’ll tell ye as we gang.’
Desmond obeyed, in a great state of bewilderment, and Peebles, when they were some hundred yards away from the farm, began his story by a question:
‘Ye’ll remember the poor woman ye met last night in the kirkyard?’
‘Yes,’ answered Desmond.
‘Man,’ said Peebles, ‘I scarce know how to tell ye, or if ye’ll believe me when I’ve tellt ye. Maybe ye’ll think I’m daft or dreaming. You’ve just got to prepare yourself for the greatest shock ye ever had in your life. It well-nigh dinged the soul oot o’ me wi’ surprise when I heard it, and it will hit ye sairer still, I’m thinking.’
The old man’s voice was so tremulous with emotion that Desmond stopped short, and peered into his face questioningly in the pale moonlight which was struggling with the thick dust of the summer night.
‘For God’s sake, Peebles,’ he said, ‘what is it?’
‘It’s just this,’ returned the Scot. ‘That poor woman was Moya Macartney—your own mother!’
For some seconds Peebles’ speech carried no emotion to Desmond’s mind.
‘My mother!’ he repeated, in a voice whose only expression was one of pure bewilderment. ‘My mother?—Moya Macartney?’
‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘She that was dead is alive. ’Tis a long story, and I’ve neither time nor breath to tell you all. She spread the report of her own death eighteen years ago, and went across the seas to America. All these long, weary years, she’s denied her heart the only pleasure it could ever know—the pleasure of seeing her son’s face and hearing his voice. At last she could bear it no longer—she came. It was she you talked wi’ last night in the kirkyard, she who kissed your forehead and gied you her blessing.’
Desmond clutched at his throat with a choking sob.
‘For God’s sake, laddie,’ cried the old man, ‘don’t break down noo! There’s work to be done. You don’t know all yet, nor the half o’t.’
‘My mother!’ cried Desmond. ‘My mother!’ He took off his soft felt hat, crushing it in his hand, and pulled his collar open, stifling with surprise and emotion. Peebles, seeing it vain to continue his story for the moment, paused, waiting till the first shock of his communication should have passed away. ‘My mother!’ Desmond repeated again, after an interval. He spoke mechanically, with an utter lack of emotion in voice and manner. ‘My mother! Well?’
‘The laddie’s stunned wi’ the intelligence,’ said Peebles to himself, ‘and small wonder. Can you understand what I’m saying, Desmond?’ he asked, taking the lad’s arm. ‘We must gang on, lad. There’ll maybe be serious work for us this night. D’ye understand me?’
‘Yes,’ said Desmond slowly, his mind still feeling numbed and dim. ‘I can hear what you say, Mr. Peebles, but it—it all seems so strange. Is it dreaming that I am?’ ‘’tis no dream,’ answered Peebles. ‘It’s as real as the soil beneath your feet, and as true as God’s above ye. Pull yerself together, lad, pull yerself together!’
‘Well,’ said Desmond, resuming his way in obedience to the impetus of Peebles’ hand, ‘go on—I’ll try to understand.’
‘She came back,’ continued Peebles—speaking slowly, that the words might better penetrate the stunned intelligence of his companion—‘she came back a’ that weary way just to see the face and hear the voice o’ the bairn she’d suffered for eighteen years ago. But, laddie, she’s had strange news! You don’t ken all the sorrowfu’ story. I tauld you, when that young cub, your cousin, taunted you wi’ the accident o’ your birth, never to think shame o’ your mother. I’ve had no chance since to tell you more; I must tell it noo. Your mother was entrapped by a sham marriage—or, at least, the marriage was believed to be a sham. It was Blake of Blake’s Hall who officiated as priest. Somehow, Moya surmised that Blake might really have been a priest, and asked me to gang till him and speer if it was so. I went this afternoon and saw him, and he confessed that he had been in holy orders, and that, though the Bishop had ta’en his cure o’ souls from him, he had never been legally unfrocked. D’ye ken whatthatmeans, laddie?’
‘My brain’s reeling,’ said Desmond; ‘I understand nothing.’
‘It means,’ cried the old man, his voice breaking with glad emotion—‘it means that you’re Desmond Conseltine, my master’s legitimate son and heir, the next Lord Kilpatrick! Oh, laddie, it’s brave news—it’s brave news—and my heart was just bursting to tell it!’
Desmond spoke no word, and his silence after the communication of the tidings a little frightened his old friend, who peered into his face as they walked on quietly side by side.
‘Hae ye nothing to say, Desmond?’ he asked.
‘What can I say?’ asked Desmond. ‘Where is my mother?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Is it to her that ye’re taking me?’
‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘We’re gaun to Larry’s mill, and there we’ll find her. Desmond, my man, she mustn’t stay there. There’s danger abroad.’
They were in the middle of the wide, waste country, but the old man could not repress the searching look he cast around him.
‘She has ill-wishers, blackguards, who’ll stick at nothing to gain their cruel ends. Blake told me this afternoon of a thing I find it hard to credit. Your uncle, Richard Conseltine, and his son, and that scoundrel Feagus,knowthat Moya’s alive, and where she’s living. Feagus saw her wi’ me in the kirkyard, and listened to our talk. Blake thinks they might molest her while she’s there asleep! We’ll just hope it’s nothing but one of his drunken havers, but I’ve kent Richard Conseltine for well-nigh thirty years, and, man, he’s a mean creature. There’s not much he’d stick at, I’m thinking, for the price is the title and estates of Kilpatrick. Anyway, ’tis just sober prudence to warn Moya and get her awa’ oot o’ danger. Her proper place is the Castle, but if she’ll no consent to gang there, we’ll just find her another shelter for awhile.’
While Peebles and Desmond were earnestly discussing the strange news of her resurrection and reappearance, Moya Macartney was seated alone in the desolate tenement known to the country people as ‘Larry’s Mill.’
It was a dreary, tumble-down place, ill-fitted for human habitation, and the ‘Larry’ by whom it had been owned had long gone the way of all flesh. The house itself was built on wooden pillars, and consisted of an upper and a lower chamber; the former utterly abandoned, save in the spring of the year, when it was temporarily occupied by an old shepherd; the latter now and again used as a sort of byre, or shelter-place for cattle. A rough ladder, several rungs or which had fallen away, led from the under to the upper room.
The mill-wheel itself, choked with filth and weeds, stood still and broken, the waters of the stream which had once turned it forcing their way through its torn fissures and gaps, and forming a slimy pool. On the night of which we write there had been heavy rains, and the stream, swollen and black, was pouring through the moveless wheel with the force and the roar of a torrent.
A truckle-bed with a coarse straw mattress, and a few coarse utensils, were the only furniture of the upper room. The floor was strewn with straw. A rude window looked down on the wheel and on the dismal pool beneath, and as the water roared, and the wind blew, the whole building shook as if about to be swept away.
The sound of someone stirring below startled the woman as she stood at the window gazing silently out into the night.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried, turning and looking down the open trap-door which opened on the ladder.
‘Sure it’s only me, ma’am,’ said a voice—‘Larry Monaghan! I’ve a message to ye from my mother, at the new mill beyant.’
As the man spoke, his head protruded through the trap-door.
‘I see ye’ve a light convanient,’ he said, pointing to a tallow candle which stood above the disused fireplace.
‘Yes, sure,’ answered Moya.
‘Kape it burning, to drive away the rats, but mind the sparks—the ould timber’s like touchwood. But sure it’s not that I came to say. My mother bids ye come over with me to the new mill, and shelter there, for sure this is no place for a decent woman.’
‘It’s only for one more night,’ replied Moya, ‘and then I’ll be laving for my own home in the south. Though I thank your kind mother all the same.’
‘Saints above!’ murmured Larry. ‘It’s not a wink of shleep I could get here! They’re sayin’ the place is haunted by the fairies.’
‘Sure they won’t harm a poor soul like me!’ cried Moya, with a musical laugh.
‘Thin ye won’t come? It’s only a short stretch down the hillside.’
‘I’ll stay where I am, thank you,’ was the reply. ‘I’m a sound sleeper, and even when I’m waking, I’ve my thoughts for company. It will be getting late?’
‘Past ten o’clock,’ said Larry, ‘and the rain’s falling heavily. I’m concerned to leave ye here, in a place so lonesome!’
‘The Lord will watch over me!’ answered Moya, crossing herself.
‘Amin!’ said the man. ‘Then I’ll say good-night!’
‘Good-night!’
With a dubious shake of the head, Larry disappeared, and immediately afterwards she heard the sound of his retreating footsteps below. He was whistling as he went, doubtless to keep up his courage, for, like most of his class, he was superstitious. Presently all was silent, save for the dismal murmur of wind and water. Left alone, Moya sat on the bedside, looking at vacancy and thinking. Presently, with a deep sigh, she rose, placed the lighted candle for safety in a tin bowl on the floor close to the bedside, and then, kneeling down, covered her face with her hands and prayed.
For a long time she remained thus, praying silently. The wind howled, and the water roared, but she did not stir. When at last she rose, her fair face looked calm and peaceful, as if the hand of an angel had been placed upon her suffering brow. Then she threw herself on the bed, and after a time fell asleep.
How long she slept she never knew; but she was wearied out, and her sleep was sound. Suddenly, with a start of terror, she awakened. The candle had gone out, and the place was in total darkness. As she lay trembling and listening, she heard, above the moan of the elements, the sound of something moving in the room below, and saw, through the trapdoor, a gleam like the light from a lanthorn.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried.
There was no answer, but the light immediately disappeared.
Moya was not superstitious, and much sorrow had given her unusual courage. She sat up in bed, listening, and heard again a sound from below—this time like retreating footsteps.
‘Sure it was only my fancy,’ she thought, ‘when I seemed to see a light yonder. ’Twill only be some of the poor mountain cattle sheltering from the storm.’
But at that moment a red gleam came from the room below, and before she could spring from her bed and look down the gleam had become a flame, lighting up the place like dawn. Conscious now of a real and awful peril, she endeavoured to descend the ladder, but a column of mingled smoke and flame drove her back, suffocating.
The room below was a sheet of fire, and piled against the walls was a heap of dry hay and straw, burning brightly, with flames that leapt up and caught the rotten timber. With a scream she again attempted to descend, but was instantly driven back. Then, scarcely knowing what she did, she closed the trap-door, and rushing to the window, threw it open.
She realized the truth now. The sounds she had heard, the light she had seen, had been made by human beings, and whether by design or by accident, the mill had been set on fire. Poor soul, she did not yet understand that there were men living in the world who would do even a deed like that to compass a fellow-creature’s death.
As she stood terror-stricken, a tongue of fire crept through the floor and caught the loose straw with which it was strewn. At this fresh horror she uttered a piercing shriek, for escape seemed impossible. As her voice rose on the night, it was answered by another from the darkness.
‘Mother! mother!’
Her heart stood still. Was she dreaming? Whose voice could it be that uttered that holy name? She leant out over the mill-wheel, and saw beyond her in the darkness the glimmer of a lanthorn.
‘Help! help!’ she cried; and as she cried the whole place seemed rocking beneath, and thick clouds of smoke and tongues of fire came up through the heating floor. Then again she heard the voice, crying and imploring.
‘Mother! mother!’
‘Who’s that?’ she cried.
‘Desmond—your son Desmond!’
Desmond! Her son! Even in her dire and awful peril she felt a thrill of delicious joy.
‘Save me, Desmond, save me!’ she cried.
‘The water-wheel!’ answered Desmond. Climb out from the window, stand on the wheel, and lape for your life into the pool below!’
Moya hesitated, and again, as the flame and smoke thickened behind her, uttered a despairing scream.
‘’Tis your only chance for life,’ called the voice. ‘Jump, mother darling! Sure I’ll be near to help ye! Jump, for the love of God!’
It was that or being burned alive. The whole mill was now one sheet of flame, and the fire scorched her as she stood, while the wooden floor crackled and split beneath her feet. Crossing herself, and consigning her soul to God, she scrambled out on the wheel and clung there on hands and knees, exposed to the full force of wind and rain.
‘Jump, mother!’ cried Desmond once more. She fluttered forward with a cry, and slipped rather than fell with a heavy splash into the boiling waters of the pool. As she did so her senses left her; she seemed to be sucked down, down into some awful abyss; then she was conscious of nothing more.
When her eyes opened, she was lying on the bank of the stream, with the light from a lanthorn flashing into her face.
‘Mother! mother!’ cried the voice she had heard before. ‘It’s Desmond—your son Desmond!’
His arms were round her neck, her head was on his bosom. Peebles, holding the lanthorn, bent over them, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
‘Desmond—my boy!’ she murmured.
‘Mother, my mother!’ he answered, sobbing over her.
He had watched her drop into the mill-pool, and then had plunged in to her rescue, catching her as she was swept down towards the fall below the mill, and swimming with her to the bank whereon she now lay.