That same night a cold round moon was shining on the old graveyard where the people of Kilpatrick had for many generations buried their dead—a place of green and grassy graves, with here and there a simple cross of stone or wood. It was a lonely place, a lonely hour, and with the rising moon came a chilly night wind, stealing from grave to grave, and lifting the grass upon them as a cold hand might lift the hair of human heads.
The silence of the spot was broken by the sound of a slow but firm footstep approaching along the quiet by-road that led to the village. A tall woman, with a shawl about her head, and clad in a material so dark as to pass for black in the moonlight, entered the graveyard, and stood looking towards the distant sea. She looked long and earnestly before she spoke.
‘It’s the time I named,’ she murmured in a deep, inward-sounding voice. ‘Will he come, I wonder? Maybe he’ll think it’s an idle message, and never guess who sent it, for he thinks me dead and gone long years ago. I must speak with him, and hear tidings of my boy. Oh, saints in heaven, that know the achings of a mother’s heart, ye’ve given me strength to bear my trouble all these years—give me strength now, and pity the wakeness that brought me here, maybe to get a glimpse of my darling son!’
She leaned against a ragged, wind-blown tree, with her forehead supported on her arm; then, slipping to the ground, bent her head in prayer—an appeal of which only an occasional word could have been heard by any chance listener, though the fervour of her supplication shook her whole body with a passionate tremor. She was so lost for the moment to all sense of her surroundings that a loud and cheerful whistle, coming along the path she had herself travelled but a few minutes previous, fell unheeded on her ear, and the gravedigger, returning for his pick and shovel, was close upon her before she recognised his presence.
She rose with a start, and the suddenness of her apparition made the intruder’s music stop with a ludicrous suddenness.
‘Musha!’ he cried. ‘What’s that at all? ’Tis a woman! Bedad, I took ye for a ghost!’
‘I’m flesh and blood, like yourself,’ she answered.
‘But why were ye kneeling there?’ he asked, still fearfully.
‘I was only saying a prayer,’ she answered.
‘A mighty lonesome place to say your prayers in,’ said the gravedigger, crossing himself. ‘Unless,’ he added as an afterthought, and more gently, ‘ye’ve any kith or kin lying here.’
‘No,’ said the woman; ‘I am a stranger.’
‘Well, good luck t’ ye, whoever y’ are,’ said the gravedigger. ‘I’ll just get the pick and the spade, and lave ye to your devotions.’ He jumped into an open grave at a little distance. ‘I can finish this in the morning,’ he added to himself. ‘Another two feet ’ll do it.’
‘Who’s to be buried there?’ she asked, as he clambered out with his tools in his hand.
‘A poor colleen that kilt herself for love. Leastways, she drowned herself, but wint out of her mind first, to make sure of Christian burial. Are ye livin’ hereabouts, my woman?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ve a lodging down at the old mill.’
‘Musha!’ said the gravedigger, ‘that’s a lonesome place.’
‘The more fit, maybe,’ she answered, ‘for a lonesome woman.’
‘Will ye be going now?’ asked the man, looking at her with some anxiety.
‘Presently,’ she answered. ‘Sure, I’m doing no harm.’
‘Sorra the bit,’ he said; ‘but I’m thinking that there’s not many women—nor men ayther, for that matter—who’d care to walk this graveyard at night, when the fairies walk it. Well, tastes differ, and so good luck t’ ye.’
‘And good luck toyou!’ the woman answered.
The man shouldered his tools and went off, resuming his interrupted whistle. The woman looked anxiously down the road.
‘It’s past the time I named,’ she said to herself, ‘and no sign of him yet.’
She walked to the low wall which separated the graveyard from the road, and stood there, watching so keenly that the sound of a footstep approaching from the opposite side of the churchyard failed to wake her attention. The unseen wayfarer, who was no other than Mr. Feagus, returning homewards after a wettish evening with a client beyond the village, caught sight of her tall, gaunt figure clearly outlined against the pale flood of moonlight which deluged the sky.
‘Who’s that, now?’ he asked himself, with a start,—‘a woman, or a taisch?—a Christian soul, or an ugly spirit? Wake my soul to glory! I’m sorry I took this road, for it’s lonesome for a lawyer with long arrears of conscience to make up; and, faith, here’s another of ’em coming the way I came myself. No, ’tis a man this time, a living man, bless the saints! I’ll step along with him for company. Am I drunk or dreamin’? ’Tis that old omadhaun, Peebles the steward! ’Tis mighty queer! What can bring a quiet man like that down here at night-toime? If it’s an assignation with that female? The old rascal! I’ll keep out of his way, and watch what he’s after.’
He slid cautiously over the wall, and established himself in the deepest shadow, just as Peebles’ lean figure emerged into clear moonlight.
The old man paused at the wicket-gate.
‘I saw someone here—I’d swear till it, and noo there’s nae sign of any living thing. Lord save us! it’s a gruesome place. Well, gruesome or no gruesome, I’ll e’en see it through. She’s there!’ he exclaimed, catching sight of the woman’s figure. ‘Ahem! Was’t you, lass, that sent the message to Mr. Peebles?’
The woman turned eagerly.
‘Yes, sir!’ she cried. ‘I sent for you!’ ‘Good e’en t’ ye, whoever ye are,’ said Peebles. ‘I’m here at your service, though I ken little enough what it is ye want o’ me. ’Twas of Moya Macartney ye wanted to speak—the puir lassie that died lang syne?’
‘Of Moya Macartney, sure enough,’ answered the woman. ‘But she never died, sir. She’s alive this day, and nearer than ye think!’
‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed Peebles. ‘You say she’s living! Moya Macartney living?’
The woman turned her face to the moonlight, and let her shawl, which had hidden it, fall back upon her shoulders. The old man stepped nearer, peering on her with a look of mingled expectation, incredulity, and superstitious horror. The face was white, thin, and wrinkled, but he recognised it in a moment; and as the great black eyes dwelt on Peebles’ face, the thin lips murmured a name which struck on his astonished ears like a veritable echo from the grave.
‘Moya!’ he cried. ‘Moya Macartney! No! It can’t be!’
‘It is, sir,’ said Moya. ‘I’m Moya Macartney. Old and gray now, Mr. Peebles, but the same colleen ye knew once in Kenmare.’
The hidden listener raised his head cautiously.
‘Saints preserve us!’ he muttered, and taking advantage of Peebles’ wonder and consternation, crept nearer to him and his companion.
‘Meeracle of meeracles!’ cried the old man. He extended a trembling hand, and took that which Moya held out in answer. It was as real as, and warmer and steadier than, his own. ‘Ay! ye’re flesh and blood; but—what does it mean?’
‘Sure, it’s a long story,’ said Moya; ‘but I’ll tell it ye in as few words as I can. When I left my child and went away broken-hearted, I little thought to live another day; but my courage failed me, and I feared to face my Maker before my time. I lived on, unknown and far away. But I heard news from time to time of my son. I knew that he was growing up happy, and ignorant, thank God, of his mother’s shame.’
‘Puir lass!’ said Peebles. ‘Puir lass! And it’s been for his own sake that ye’ve held aloof from him all these years—never shown your face or spoke a word!’
‘Sure, why should I? ’Twas enough for me to think that maybe, when he thought that I was dead, my lord’s heart might be turned to the poor friendless boy, and that he might crape into his father’s heart and earn his love. I said to myself a thousand times, “God bless him! I’ll never disgrace him. He shall never learn that his mother’s still living on this weary earth.”’
‘But ye’ve come at last, Moya,’ said Peebles, wiping his eyes; ‘ye’ve come at last to——’
‘Only to hear of his happiness—only, maybe, to get one glimpse of his face. Oh, sir, if I could do that same, I’d die happy, for the heaviness of years is on me, and I’ve not long to live. Speak to me! Tell me of him! Is he well and happy?’
‘Weel?’ repeated Peebles. ‘Ay, he’s weel enough. Happy? Ay, he’s as happy as most folk, for it’s a wearyin’ world.’ He paused, looking pityingly at Moya, and then resumed in a hesitating manner: ‘I’ve news for ye that I fear will not be over welcome to ye. ’Twas only yesterday he learned the truth. He found oot that Lord Kilpatrick was his father, and with that, poor lad, he shook the dust from his feet and fled away from his father’s house.’
‘My God!’ cried Moya. ‘But who tould him? Not you, sure?’
‘I?’ cried Peebles—‘I, that hae guarded the secret these eighteen years, and burdened my conscience with endless lees for the poor lad’s sake and yours! No, no, Moya. He was taunted wi’ his birth by a wicked whelp—his cousin, Richard Conseltine’s son, and a’ came oot.’
‘And then?’ cried Moya.
‘My lord begged him to stay, offered to make him his lawful heir, but he refused the siller and cursed his father in his mother’s name. Ah, don’t greet, woman, or I’ll be greeting too. Your name’s deepest in the lad’s heart, and first upon his lips.’
‘God bless him!’ sobbed the heartbroken mother. ‘But what shall I do? What shall I do?’
‘Let me take ye to him,’ said Peebles. ‘Eh, lass, but the boy’s heart will leap for joy to know ye’re alive.’
‘No!’ said Moya, shrinking back. ‘No, no! Let things be as they are. It’s betther, far betther, that he should think me dead.
Alive, I shall only shame him more. Just let me see him, let me look into his eyes and hear his voice—’tis all I ask of the blessed saints, and I’ll go back to where I came from and never trouble him again.’
At that moment, as if in answer to the impassioned prayer of that lonely heart, a voice rose at a hundred yards’ distance. Peebles started at the sound:
‘Tho’ I lave thee for ever, my darling, and go,
Thine image shall haunt me in sunshine and
snow;
Like the light of a star shining over the foam,
Thy face shall go with me wherever I roam.’
‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles. ‘’Tis himself.’
‘Who?’ cried Moya wildly. ‘Desmond? My son?’
‘Ay! your son Desmond. Wheest, woman! He’s coming this way.’
‘Though waves roll between us, sweet star of my
love,
Thy voice calls unto me——’
Desmond’s voice rose again as he spoke, nearer and more distinct.
‘Mr. Peebles!’ he cried, pausing in his song to scrutinize his old friend’s figure in the moonlight. ‘It’s late for you to be out here among the graves. Who’s that with ye?’
Peebles hesitated. Moya touched him lightly on the arm.
‘It’s just a poor peasant body. She’s strange to these parts, and was asking the way.’
Moya had gathered her shawl about her face again, and a sob broke from her.
‘Sure she’s in trouble,’ Desmond added pityingly.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Moya, conquering herself, ‘I’m in bitter trouble. And by the same token there’s trouble inyourheart too.’
‘In mine?’ said Desmond, forcing a laugh, not very successfully.
‘Ye favour one I used to know,’ said Moya. ‘Will ye tell me your name, sir?’
‘My name?’ said Desmond hesitatingly. ‘Well, why not? My name’s Desmond Macartney.’
‘Desmond Macartney!’ the woman repeated. ‘I’ll not forget it. Sure I’d once a boy of me own, as swate to look upon as yourself. It’s proud your mother should be of such a son.’
‘My mother is dead,’ said Desmond. ‘She died long ago—when I was but a child. Good-night t’ ye, and God help ye through your trouble.’
‘Where are you going, Desmond?’ asked Peebles.
‘To the farm yonder; they’ll put me up for the night.’
‘Wait for me there to-morrow. I must see you.’
‘I’ll wait,’ said Desmond. He looked again at Moya, who was crying unrestrainedly. ‘Poor soul!’ he said. ‘She seems to have a heavy grief.’
‘She has,’ said Peebles. ‘She’s lost all the folk she loves.’
‘Like me,’ sighed Desmond. ‘Well, well! “Though I lave thee for ever,”’ he began singing again as he turned away, till interrupted by the stranger’s voice.
‘Sir—Mr. Desmond!’ cried the woman suddenly, ‘they say that the blessing o’ one broken heart may help to heal the trouble of another. Will ye bend down in this holy place and take a poor creature’s blessing?’
‘Sure,’ said Desmond, ‘it’s only one blessing in the whole world that I seek, and that I can never have—the blessing of my own dead mother.’
‘Maybe it might come through me! I’m a mother, too!’
‘Humour her, laddie,’ said Peebles gently. ‘Humour her. Her sorrow’s great.’
Desmond took off his cap and knelt with bent head. It seemed long before the voice broke the solemn stillness, but when at last it was audible, it was strangely firm.
‘May the Lord watch over ye, now and for ever! May the mouth of the mother that bore ye spake through me, and bring ye happiness, health, and peace. May your days be long in the land, till you’re old and gray like me. But, oh, may ye never know my trouble or lose what I have lost. Amen! Amen!’
‘And may God blessyou!’ said Desmond, rising, deeply touched by the solemn words and the deep rich voice which had spoken them.
‘And now,’ said Moya, ‘will ye let a poor crathure kiss your forehead, for the sake of her own son that she’ll never see again?’ She took his head between her hands and pressed her lips to his brow in a long embrace. ‘The Lord be with you, Desmond Macartney.’
With no other word, she turned and left the graveyard, Peebles following her after a hasty reminder to Desmond of their engagement for the morrow.
It was not till some minutes later, when Desmond’s voice rose again on the air at a considerable distance, and the figures of Moya and Peebles had disappeared, that Feagus rose to his feet.
‘Monomondiaoul!’ he said softly to himself. ‘Moya Macartney alive! And what will me lord and Mr. Conseltine say to that, I wonder?’
Lady Dulcie, wending her way back from the shebeen to the Castle under the escort of Rosie and the faithful Larry, dried her tears resolutely, and did her best—no hard task at sweet eighteen, with love as an ally—to look on the bright side of things. Desmond would never leave her for long, of that she felt assured. He might go out into the world to seek his fortune, and, of course, one so brave, generous, handsome, and altogether admirable, could hardly fail to find it; but his success or failure would never, she told herself, make any difference to her. The day was not far off when she would be her own mistress, and then no spite of accident or design should hold her from her lover’s arms.
As she and her companions came upon the confines of the Castle grounds two dusky figures approached them, and she made out by the faint light of the rising moon that they were Mr. Conseltine and his son Richard. They saluted her silently, to her great relief, and she passed by.
‘She’s been to meet that blackguard bastard, I suppose,’ muttered Richard between his teeth. ‘Damn him!’
‘With all my heart!’ responded his senior. ‘Damn him, by all means! Your blunder of the morning has turned out better than I had dared to hope; but it was a blunder all the same.’
‘It might have been,’ returned Richard; ‘but, so far, it has answered. We’ve got the brute out of the house, and it won’t be my fault if he gets in again.’
‘’Twas too bold a stroke, lad,’ said Conseltine. ‘You show your cards too openly—you play too boldly. If the proud-stomached young ass had only had a little common-sense, he might have consolidated his position with your uncle. Henry was in the mood to do anything, to commit any folly, after you insulted the boy.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ returned Richard. ‘I hate the cad to such an extent that I’d have shouted his shame in his face if it had cost me every penny I have and every penny I expect from Kilpatrick.’
‘You’re a fool,’ said his father, smoothly as ever. It required a good deal to shake the elder Conseltine from his calm cynicism. ‘And if you think the game’s won just because you’ve insulted the Squireen and got him out of the Castle for a single day, you’re a bigger fool than I ever thought you—and that’s not saying a little. The game’s only begun. Henry’s fond of the brat—absence will make him fonder still. It’s quite on the cards that he may leave every stick and stone of his property to him and strand you with the barren title. Keep out of his way. He never liked you, and now he likes you less than ever. Leave him to me. Leave Dulcie alone, too. Don’t be trying to excuse yourself, or trying to make love to her; you’ll only make bad a deal worse. Who’s that in front of us?—your eyes are younger than mine.’
‘It’s that drunken scoundrel Blake.’
‘Blake!’ repeated Conseltine, and fell into a slower step. ‘Well, ’tis lucky, on the whole. ’Tis as well he should know.’
‘Know what?’ asked Richard.
‘Know all there is to be known about this business of the Squireen,’ answered the elder.
‘What affair is it of his?’
‘That you’ll not learn from me,’ responded his father: ‘not yet, at least. If it’s ever necessary you should know, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, keep a still tongue and an open eye. It’s to the shebeen he’s going—we’ll follow him.’
They were close behind Blake’s heels by the time he had reached the door of the alehouse. He lurched round and faced them.
‘The divil and his imp,’ he remarked, as a polite salutation, and stumbled across the threshold with no further greeting than a drunken laugh.
Peebles was in the kitchen, finishing a drink of whisky, and chatting with the widow.
‘Hullo! my king o’ Scots,’ hiccuped Blake. ‘You here? Drinkin’, too! Ye’ve taken to decent habits in your old age. Here! you’ll have another drink with me.’
‘Indeed but I’ll no’,’ replied the sententious old Scot.
‘You won’t! You won’t drink?’
‘Yes, with my friends,’ returned Peebles; ‘but I see none o’ themhere.’
He set his glass upon the table, nodded to the widow, and went out to keep his already recorded interview with Moya in the churchyard.
Blake laughed with drunken good humour.
’Tis a brave boy, old Peebles! He doesn’t trust me, but, after all, ’tis a question of taste, and no gentleman quarrels on such a ground. Bedad, I’m dry.’ He searched his pockets, and found them empty. ‘Here, you spalpeen,’ he continued, accosting Richard, ‘pay for a drink for me. Sure, ’twill be a luxury for you, and one you don’t often enjoy.’
‘Bring some whisky, if you please, Mrs. Daly,’ said Conseltine smoothly, before Richard could muster his heavy wits to retort. ‘Sit down, Blake, and listen to me. Are ye sober enough to talk business?’
‘I’m as sober as I need be,’ responded Blake; ‘and more sober than I want to be, at this hour o’ the night.’
‘That’s easily cured,’ said Conseltine dryly, handing him a charged tumbler; ‘but don’t go too fast—this is business.’
‘Discoorse,’ said Blake, tossing off the spirit, ‘and I’ll listen.’
The widow still lingered about the room, making pretence of trifling with some household task. Conseltine with a smooth voice bade her leave them to themselves, and she obeyed, after which he rose, and for greater security closed the door leading to the road.
‘Ye’re mighty mysterious,’ said Blake. ‘What is it, at all?’
‘Have you heard what happened at the Castle this morning?’ asked Conseltine, leaning across the rude table at which the two were seated, and speaking in a whisper.
‘How the divil should I?’ asked Blake.
‘I’ve not been out of bed an hour, and I’d be there still, but the whisky gave out, and I kem here to wet my whistle.’
‘’Tis better ye should hear it from me than from another,’ said Conseltine, in the same tone of extreme caution. ‘My son here made a fool of himself this morning.’
‘Did he, now?’ returned Blake, with a laugh. ‘Sure his Creator did that for him twenty years ago.’
‘He had a row with the Squireen, young Desmond Macartney, and let out what he knew about his birth.’
‘’Tis the first time I knew that he knew anything about it,’ said Blake. ‘Was it you that trusted him with such a secret?’
‘Never mind how he came to know,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He learned the secret. Desmond provoked him, and he blurted it out before everybody—Lady Dulcie, my brother, Peebles and all.’
‘And he’s here to tell the tale?’ said Blake, with an air of drunken surprise. ‘Bedad, I’m a good man with my fists, but ’tis not I that would like to tell the Squireen that story.’
‘Listen! Listen!’ said Conseltine, beating the tops of his fingers on the table a little impatiently.
‘D’ye mean to sit there, Dick Conseltine,’ said Blake, ‘an’ tell me that that rip of a son o’ yours told the Squireen all that, and there was no fight?’
‘Devil a bit of a fight,’ answered Conseltine. ‘The boy was knocked clean out of time by the information. Well, when he came to, his lordship told him he’d acknowledge him before the world.’
‘His lordship’s a gentleman!’ cried Blake. ‘By the Lord, he is! If only he could hold a dacent skinful o’ liquor, he’d be the finest gentleman in Ireland, bar none. And what did the Squireen say?’
‘He cursed the father that begot him,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He shook the dust of the house off his feet, and swore he’d never cross the threshold again!’
‘Then the boy’s like his father—a gentleman!’ cried Blake, with a drunken cheer. ‘Here’s to him, with three times three and all the honours! And what did the old man say to that?’
‘It has made him seriously ill,’ answered Conseltine. ‘He has passed the day in bed, and has refused himself to everybody except Peebles. Now, Blake,’ he leaned further across the table, and fixed his keen eyes on the face of the drunken squire, ‘the time has come for a definite understanding between us.’
‘Well?’ asked Blake. He made an obvious and partially successful attempt to sober himself. ‘Give me that jug o’ water.’ It was passed to him, and he drained it—to the great apparent refreshment and steadying of his wits. ‘A man has need of all his brains, Dick Conseltine, when ye speak in that tone of voice. Out with it—what hell-broth are ye brewing now?’
‘There’s no new development yet,’ answered Conseltine, with a smile, ‘though something may occur at any moment with Henry in his present condition. But I want to know definitely, yes or no, are you for us or against us?’
‘That just depends on how ye treat me,’ muttered Blake. ‘I don’t know whether it is that I’m getting old, or whether the whisky is playing false with my nerves—which is what I’d call my conscience, if I was one o’ the pious sort—or what it is, but I—I fluctuate! Sometimes—it’s generally in the morning, when I wake—I feel penitent: I feel that I’d like to go over to the enemy and clear my breast o’ the load I’ve borne this eighteen years and more. What are ye doin’?’ he asked angrily, as Conseltine trod heavily on his foot beneath the table. ‘Oh, the cub! Sure I said nothin’ that he has the brains to understand. Yes, Mr. Richard Conseltine, that’s how I feel at times, and it comes over me generally in the mornin’, when the whisky’s out and my pockets are empty. And, by thunder, if I did! if I did tell all I know—Holy Moses! what a racket it would make up at the Castle, and all Ireland over. Faith, I’d live in history! ’Twould be what the play-actors call a fine situation! And let me tell ye, there’s them as ’d make it worth me while to do it!’
‘You drunken hog!’ murmured Conseltine under his breath; adding aloud, ‘You won’t do that, Blake!’
‘Won’t I?’ returned Blake. ‘Faith, you’re surer about it than I am!’
‘No,’ said Conseltine, ‘you won’t do it. I can make it better worth your while to keep silent.’
‘Then why the divil don’t ye?’ asked Blake. ‘You’re very fond o’ talking about your gratitude, and you hold out fine promises, but what do yedo?’
‘It seems to me,’ returned the other, ‘that I’ve done a good deal.’
‘And it seems to me,’ exclaimed Blake, banging the table to emphasize the personal pronoun, ‘that ye do damn’d little. I tell ye, Dick Conseltine, it’s not for nothing that I’m going to suffer the torments of an aching conscience!’
‘Your aching conscience,’ said Conseltine, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, ‘has been fairly well salved so far. Is it money that you want?’
‘Bedad it is, then!’ cried the other. ‘I haven’t the price of a glass in the wide world.’
‘Well,’ said his fellow conspirator, ‘I’m willing to do what I can, in reason.’
‘In reason!’ repeated Blake. ‘Your notions of what’s reasonable and mine may not agree. Look here, now, what d’ye say to two hundred pounds?’
‘Two hundred pounds!’ cried Conseltine, with well-acted amazement. ‘Oh, come, come, Blake!’
‘Come, come!’ echoed Blake. ‘’Tis you that has to come—I’ve gone far enough along the road to hell; I’ll go no farther unless I’m paid for it. I want two hundred pounds to-morrow, and I’ll have it, or know the reason why!’
‘I can’t do it, Blake,’ cried Conseltine.
‘Very well, then,’ said Blake, ‘his lordship can, and I’ll not only get two hundred, but ease my aching conscience at the same time.’
‘I think you’re hard,’ said Conseltine. ‘Come, Blake; our interests stand or fall together. Look at the affair all round, pro and con. You might get that two hundred from Henry, but ’twould be all you’d get. Now, serve my interest, and Dick’s here, and you’re safe for life. Have I ever refused you money when you asked for it?’
‘That’s all right,’ said Blake; ‘don’t refuse me now!’
‘Well,’ groaned Conseltine, ‘if you must have it you must.’
‘Bedad I must,’ returned the other, with a nod full of meaning. ‘Is it a bargain?’
‘Yes, it’s a bargain.’
‘To-morrow, mind.’
‘Yes, to-morrow.’
‘Good! Then I’ll drug my conscience and accept the solatium. And now I’m goin’ home.’
‘Very well,’ said Conseltine; ‘I’ll see you to-morrow.’
‘All right!’ retorted Blake, with a disfavouring eye on Richard. ‘Don’t bring the cub with you. I can stand the old sinner, but not the young one.’
He reeled from the room, and Conseltine’s glance, as it followed him, was full of a dark and concentrated loathing.
‘The insolent scoundrel!’ said Richard, when he was out of hearing. ‘Why do you stand him? What is his hold over you?’
‘I hope you’ll never need to know,’ returned his father, draining his glass. ‘Damn him! I wish he was in the grave.’
‘He’s going there as fast as drink can take him,’ said Richard.
‘I feel inclined sometimes,’ said his amiable parent, ‘to give him a lift on the journey.’
Peebles, returning home to the Castle after his midnight interview with Moya Macartney in the churchyard, passed a sleepless and troubled night, revolving in his mind all the events of the sad history in which the unfortunate woman had played so strange a part, and canvassing all that her mysterious and unexpected return to life might mean to herself and others. More than once he determined to disregard Moya’s strenuous injunction to silence, and at once break to Lord Kilpatrick the news of her existence, and of her presence in the district; but again and again the memory of the solemn promise of secrecy he had given, and the thought that so sudden and heavy a shock might be fatal to one of his lordship’s age and feeble health, dissipated that intention.
‘Eh!’ he murmured to himself as he tossed and tumbled in vain effort to discover a way out of the labyrinth of difficulties the business presented, ‘it’s a troublous affair. I’d like to do justice, if I could see my way clear to the doing o’t. I’d like fine to bowl out that smugfaced hypocrite Conseltine, and that lump o’ malignity his son. ’Twould be the grandest day’s work I ever did. But I promised, like an old fool, and I must keep my promise, and just await the decrees o’ Providence.’
He rose long before his usual hour, early as that was, and went out into the fresh breeze of early morning. Dawn was faintly glimmering on the mountain-tops, and the dew was heavy on the grasses of the lawn. He looked up at the light which shone faintly in his master’s window.
‘’Twill be but a poor night’s rest he’s had, I’m thinkin’, poor old heathen, found out by his sin at last. Eh, but the lad’s curses will lie heavy on his heart! Mine’s wae for him, and for the callant I’ve seen grow up from a bairn, and for the lonely woman out yonder.’
A sudden idea struck him; he drew out his watch and consulted it eagerly.
‘Near hand to four o’clock,’ he murmured. ‘The mill’s but four miles awa’. I can do it in an hour, and anither hour to come back. I’ll gang and see Moya, and persuade her to hear reason.’
He took his hat and stick, and set out at the briskest pace he could attain towards Moya’s lodging place. It was a rough and stony track, and by the time he came in sight of the mill the old man was fain to sit upon a chance boulder and pant his breath back. Caution was necessary; he wished to do nothing that could by any chance give gossip or conjecture a handle, and he walked cautiously round the mill, glad of the babble of the stream which covered the sound of his footsteps on turf and gravel. Nobody was stirring; the place and all the countryside lay still and gray under the morning mist, now faintly touched here and there with threads of opalescent colour by the yet invisible sun. He threw a small pebble cautiously at the window shutter of Moya’s sleeping place, and a minute later it opened and revealed her pale, lined face. He made a gesture, cautioning her to silence, and then by another invited her to join him. She nodded to show comprehension of his pantomime, and a minute later stood beside him.
They walked on side by side in silence till they reached a little glen between two hills which hid them from all chance of observation, and then Peebles spoke.
‘Moya, woman,’ he said, ‘tell me why, after all these years, you come here now?’
‘I came to see my son,’ she answered.
‘Ay,’ he said, ‘that’s natural eneuch, na doubt. But is thatallyou came for?’
She darted a keen look at him—a look in which question and surprise were both expressed.
‘Moya,’ he went on, ‘since I saw you last night I’ve no’ closed my eyes for thinking o’ you and the lad your son. Eh, woman, but it’s clear impossible that after that one glimpse o’ his bonny face, and that one sound o’ his voice, ye should be content to gang back to solitude—it’s clear impossible! Let me tell him you’re alive and near him.He’salone, too, noo! His place is by your side; your duty is to comfort him under the trouble he’s suffering, ye ken that weel?’
‘Mr. Peebles,’ said Moya steadily, ‘the path of duty is not always plain; but I’m going to clear mine if I can, by your help. God knows my very bones are full of desire for the child I love; I was near crying out who I was last night when I kissed him; but I’ve borne the bitter pain of solitude now for eighteen years, and sure my time here will not be so long. I’ll bear it to the end rather than disgrace and shame my child!’
‘But, Moya, he kens!’ cried Peebles. ‘He kens you were not married to his father. I winna say but, if he had never learned that, ye wad no’ be in the right to keep apart from him; but he knows it. He’s cast off his father; he has barely a friend in the world, barring me, and how canIhelp him. He has need o’ ye! Ye’ll heal his sair heart, and he’ll love ye and cherish ye and comfort your declining years.’
Moya shook her head.
‘He’s young,’ she replied, with a world of meaning in her tone. ‘A heart as young as his won’t break for such a trouble as he’s suffering now. He’ll go out into the big world, where the shame’s not known, and win his way. What wouldIbe to him—a nameless vagabond, a poor, ignorant ould woman! I should only kape him down and disgrace him. No; ye must tell Desmond nothing—yet. Ye asked me just now,’ she went on after a pause, ‘if I had no other reason to come here afther all these years but just to see my boy?’
‘Weel?’ asked Peebles.
‘I had—I had another reason, or I’d have resisted the temptation now as I have fought it down all that long, dreary time. I’ve a question to ask ye, Mr. Peebles?’ She paused there for so long a time that the old man snapped out suddenly, with excusable irritation:
‘Weel, weel, lassie! What is’t?’
‘There’s so much depends on the answer that I hardly dare to ask,’ said Moya, with a voice suddenly gone tremulous. ‘Tell me,’ she continued, after another pause, ‘if ye know a gintleman in this part of the counthry that calls himself Blake—one Patrick Blake, of Blake’s Hall?’
‘Do I know him?’ echoed Peebles. ‘Ay, I know him fine, the drunken scoundrel! A’body kens him for miles round. But what depends on my knowing Patrick Blake, lassie?’
‘Much may depend on it,’ said Moya. ‘Desmond’s own future may depend on it.’
‘Desmond’s future? Why, what in the name of a’ that’s meaning can Pat Blake hae to do wi’ Desmond’s future?’
‘Was Mr. Blake,’ asked Moya slowly, and with an amount of effort which helped the old man to understand the importance she attached to the answer—‘was Mr. Blake ever a clerk in holy orders?’
Peebles stared at her in sheer bewilderment. Had she asked if he himself had ever been Pope of Rome, the question could hardly have seemed more ludicrous; but there was a painful solemnity in her manner which would have stayed a man less grave than he from laughter.
‘Holy orders!’ he muttered. ‘Holy orders! Patrick Blake! By my soul, but it’s an odd question!’
‘Not under that name, I mane, but another—Ryan O’Connor.’
‘He’s borne no name but Patrick Blake that I ever kenned o’,’ said Peebles, still groping painfully for any meaning in Moya’s queries. ‘She’s haverin’,’ he muttered to himself; but the calm intentness of Moya’s glance, though contradicted by the heaving bosom and irregular breath with which she spoke, did not accord with the explanation. ‘What if he ever was a priest under that or any other name?’ he asked at last.
‘I was married to Lord Kilpatrick,’ said Moya, ‘by a man calling himself the Reverend Father Ryan O’Connor.’
‘Lord guide us!’ ejaculated the old Scot. ‘And do ye think ’Twas Patrick Blake?’
‘Iknowit was Patrick Blake,’ replied Moya. ‘That much I’m sure of.’
‘But how do you ken it?’ asked the bewildered Peebles.
‘Sure ‘twould be too long a story to tell ye now. ’Twas only lately that an accident put me on the track. It took time and trouble to get Ryan O’Connor and Patrick Blake into the same skin, but I did it. And now, all that remains to be learned is just whether Blake was ever a priest, or whether his office was as false as his name. Will ye do that for me, Mr. Peebles? ’Tis not for my sake I ask it, but for my son’s—for Desmond’s!’
Peebles had fallen into a sitting posture on a low stone dyke, and sat staring at her like a man bewitched.
‘Moya! Moya Macartney! D’ye ken what ye’re sayin’? Oh! my head will rive with the dingin’ ye’ve started in my brains. Blake married ye! Blake a priest! Why, woman!’ he cried, suddenly straightening himself, ‘if that’s so, ye’re Lady Kilpatrick!’
‘Desmond would be Lord Kilpatrick,’ Moya answered simply. ‘’Tis for his sake, Mr. Peebles, that I ask you for help; not for mine, God knows. There were times,’ she went on, after another long pause, ‘long, long ago, when I’d have given my life to hold him—Henry Kilpatrick—in my arms for just one minute—times when all the shame and sorrow he’d brought on the poor ignorant girl who’d loved him seemed nothing—when, if the broad sea had not been betwixt us, I’d have gone to him and said, “Take me as your misthress, your servant, anything—let me see your face and hear your voice now and then, one day in the year, and I’ll follow ye barefoot through the world.” But they’ve gone, long since, and all my love and all my anger are gone with them. As to bein’ Lady Kilpatrick,’ she went on, with a short and mirthless laugh, ‘’tis not the chance of that that brings me here. A fine lady I’d make for any lord, wouldn’t I? and much at me aise I’d be among the grand folk he’d introduce me to? But Desmond’s a gintleman—as good a gintleman as any in Ireland, as Henry himself—and if the title’s his by rights, he shall have it.Ishan’t trouble him. I shall go as I came, when I’ve seen him happy and honoured in his place. The thought has been food and drink, fire and shelter, to me these months past, since God sent the message that it might be so. Will you help me, Mr. Peebles?’
‘Will I help ye?’ cried Peebles, springing to his feet with the vivacity of a young man. ‘Deil hae me, but I’ll know the truth in four-and-twenty hours. But, eh, lass, if ye’re mistaken? If it’s not sae? I’d just gang clean daft in the disappointment. But it must—it must be true, eh, lass? To see the faces o’ they two Conseltines! To see the bonny lad, that they denounced as a beggar and a bastard, established wi’ title and estates! To see Lady Dulcie Lady Kilpatrick and Desmond’s wife! Oh! if it’s no’ true there’ll be a braw end o’ one good Scot, for I’ll just gang neck and crop into Limbo for sheer vexation. Dawm it! that I should say so—itmustbe true! It shall be true, if I squeeze it oot o’ yon scoundrel Blake wi’ my ain old hands, and his worthless life along wi’ it! But I maun awa’, lass—I maun awa’. There’s a hantle o’ things to be done at the Castle, and the lazy loons o’ servants are at sixes and sevens if they haven’t me about their lugs. I’ll see yon drunken ne’er-do-weel this day, and I’ll hae news for ye the morn’s morn. Keep a good heart, woman. The king shall enjoy his ain again. Eh, I’m just daft!’ Indeed, anybody who had witnessed the scene might have thought so,—he was so topful of excitement.
‘God bless ye, Mr. Peebles,’ said Moya. ‘Ye’re a true friend to me and the boy.’
‘Ay, am I,’ returned Peebles, ‘and that ye shall see ere long. Gang hame, lass, and pray for Desmond.’
‘Pray for him!’ cried Moya. ‘Has there been a day this eighteen years I’ve not prayed for him? No, nor a waking hour. God go with ye, sir, but——’
She checked him with an outstretched hand as he turned to go, and laid her finger on her lips as a signal for absolute silence.
‘Don’t fear me,’ said the old man; ‘I’m nae chatterbox, wi’ business like this afoot.’