For a long, sacred space the mother and son thus strangely reunited knelt together, their arms about each other, their hearts full of a whirl of many mingled emotions which made speech impossible. When at last Moya broke the long silence, it was with a voice curiously calm, despite the deep underlying tremor which told by what an heroic effort she was able to speak at all.
‘Desmond! My son!’
‘Mother!’ was all Desmond could sob in return.
‘Ye know me? Ye know who I am?’
‘Yes; Peebles has told me,’ returned Desmond.
‘Ye don’t shrink from me? Ye don’t despise the poor woman that loves ye?’
‘Shrink from you! Despise you!’ cried the boy, straining her to his heart, and speaking between the kisses with which he covered her face, her hands, her dress. ‘I’m like to burst with joy for finding ye! I was alone in the world, with scarce a friend, nameless and hopeless and homeless, and God has sent meyou!’
He raised her to her feet, and fell on his knees again before her, looking up at her with eyes bright with fast-running tears.
‘Mother! mother! mother!’
It was all that he could say, and there was at once infinite pleasure and poignant grief in his repetition of the word. He fell forward, embracing her knees.
‘God’s good, after all!’ said Moya.
‘Many and many has been the bitter hour all these weary years when I thought He had forgotten me. Oh, my son, my son!’
She lifted him from his kneeling posture, and fed her hungry eyes upon his face.
‘Ye’re my own boy, Desmond. I can see the face that I remember years ago, smilin’ at me from the glass, when I little thought of the bitter trouble in store for me. I can die happy now. There’s nothing more that God can give me, now that I’ve held you in my arms and heard you call me mother.’
‘Not for many a long year yet, please God,’ sobbed Desmond; ‘not for many a long, happy year that you and I will pass together. I’ve something to live for, now—something to work for. We’ll go away together, back to the place you came from, and forget the past and all its misery.’
‘Hisface, too!’ said Moya, who, in her passionately loving scrutiny of Desmond’s features had let his words pass unheeded; ‘his face, as it was when I first knew him!’
‘You mean my father?’ cried Desmond. ‘I’ve disowned him! I’ve cast him off! I have no father!—nobody in the world but you, mother!’
‘Hoots, man!’ said Peebles, who stood blinking and looking on like an intelligent raven, ‘are ye going to retreat just when the battle’s in your hand? That’s mighty poor generalship, laddie!’
The events of the last quarter of an hour had quite banished from Desmond’s memory the story the old man had told him as they had walked from the farmer’s cottage towards the mill. At this sudden interruption he stared at Peebles with the empty look of one aroused from a daydream by words which bear no meaning to his mind.
‘All this trouble has turned the poor lad’s brain,’ said Peebles to Moya. ‘Hae ye forgotten,’ he continued to Desmond, ‘all that I told ye not an hour syne?’
The boy gave a sudden cry of recollection, and again threw his arms about his mother’s neck.
‘Come!’ he cried, ‘come to the Castle, and take the place that’s yours by right.’
‘Not yet, laddie, not yet,’ said Peebles. ‘Soft and cunning goes far. My lord’s no in a condition to hae sic a surprise sprung on him wi’ no sort o’ warning. ‘Deed, ’twould kill him, I’m thinking.’
‘And serve him right!’ cried Desmond hotly.
‘Hoots, man!’ said Peebles again, ‘ye’re in o’er much of a hurry to inherit.’
‘I?’ cried Desmond. ‘I never thought of myself. ’Tis for her, Peebles. Think of the long years of misery she’s endured, of all the anguish—the—the——’ His voice broke.
‘Ay!’ said Peebles. ‘Ye think as the young, who have never kenned sorrow, are apt to think. She has suffered so long that anither day or twa will hardly matter much, I’m thinking. You must bide a wee, laddie. You must trust to Peebles. I’m just as anxious to see you and your mother get your rights as ye can be yersel’; but lookers-on see most of the game, and my lord’s head is cooler than yours is like to be.’
‘He is right, Desmond,’ said Moya. ‘We must think of—of your father, and then—’tis myself, too, that has need of time and need of prayer. If the news had come years back, I couldn’t have held myself back. I should have run to him at once. But now—’tis not of him I think; ’tis of you. ’Tis little enough pleasure to me to know that I am Lady Kilpatrick, and the love that would have carried me to him is gone—gone all to you, Desmond.’
She fell silent for a time, looking straight before her with an expression which her two companions strove vainly to interpret till she spoke again.
‘Those villains think that they have killed me,’ she said presently, speaking quietly, almost dreamily. ‘I was thinkin’ that maybe——’
‘Yes, lassie—I mean Lady Kilpatrick,’ said the old man, substituting the title for the more familiar form of address, with all the respect of a good Scot for the upper ranks of the social hierarchy.
‘They think I’m dead,’ she said again, in the same slow and dreamy fashion. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I were dead?’
‘God guide us!’ exclaimed the old man, her wits are wandering.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But couldn’t I go away quietly to some place where Desmond could come and see me at odd times? I’d not disgrace him, then, nor—nor Henry. If Blake will spake the truth, Desmond will be the next Lord Kilpatrick, and that will make me as happy as I can ever be this side o’ the grave.’
‘Disgrace me!’ cried Desmond. ‘Oh, mother! how can ye speak so?’ What is it to me that I am to be Lord Kilpatrick? Sure, I’d rather be the poor Squireen, and have you to love and work for, than be king of all Ireland.’
‘Weel said!’ cried Peebles. ‘Eh, there’s the real grit in ye, laddie! But I’m thinking that maybe ye’ll find mair virtue in the title o’ Lord Kilpatrick than ye think for. Think o’ Lady Dulcie, Desmond. Can ye ask her, the bonnie doo, to share sic a life as ye’d hae to live for years and years to come, before ye’ve made a name and position for yersel’? It looks easy at your age to conquer the world, but the fight’s a long and bitter one. And then, there’s the plain justice of the case. Let right be done. Your mother’s Lady Kilpatrick, and you’re Desmond Conseltine, my lord’s heir, and I’ll see them damn’d—the Lord forgive me for swearin’!—before I’ll let yon brace o’ murderin’ thieves prosper at your expense. No, no, Moya, my lass. There’s nae hurry for the moment. We can afford the time to bide and turn it over till we’ve hit on the best means o’ gettin’ your rights—but hae them ye shall, and Desmond, too, or my name’s no’ Peebles. But save us a’, here are ye twa poor creatures standing here drippin’ water. Ye’ll be takin’ yer deaths o’ cauld. I must find ye anither shelter, my lady, where ye may bide quiet and canny till matters are arranged. I’ll hae to find how the land lies, and prepare my lord’s mind. I hae’t! There’s Patsy Maguire’s cottage. He’s gone to Dublin to sell his stock for emigrating to America. He’ll not be back for a week, and the bit sticks o’ furniture are a’ there. ’Tis a lonesome place. Ye’ll not be disturbit, and nobody need ken that ye’re there. I’ll send ye all ye can want by a sure hand. Kiss your son, and say good-bye to him for a day or twa. Trust to me!’
Desmond and his mother took each other again in their arms, and for a minute the deep silence of the night was broken only by the babble of the brook and the sound of their sobs and kisses. Then the old mill, which had been blazing furiously, though unheeded, fell in upon itself with a thunderous crash.
‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles, ‘come awa’ if ye don’t want the countryside about us! It’s jest a wonder that naebody’s come already. Hoot! they’re coming!’
A noise of distant voices and the clatter of feet became audible.
‘Quick, quick!’ cried the old man. ‘Get back hame, Desmond; I’ll see to your mother.’
He took Moya by the arm, and with gentle violence forced her from the scene, while Desmond moved off in the contrary direction. Once or twice he had to hide behind trees and boulders from the people who were now passing towards the mill attracted from all quarters by the blazing timbers.
Once clear of them, and out again in the wide silence of the summer night, he tried hard to fix his mind on the events of the evening, but his brain was bewildered, and seemed like a screw too worn to bite; he could think to no satisfactory result. Half mechanically, his feet bore him in paths he had travelled thousands of times, and he found himself at last on the outskirts of Kilpatrick Castle. Then his wandering wits fixed themselves on one image—Dulcie! He stole noiselessly as a thief about the great house. It was still as a tomb, and dark, but for a single ray of light which shone from a window which he knew to be Dulcie’s. His heart glowed with love and hope. At last she should be his!
There was no question now of accepting her heroic self-sacrifice. He could give her the position that she had a right to aspire to. She had descended from her lofty station like a pitying angel to love the poor, nameless boy. He could raise her to a higher. His heart was so full of love and pride and triumph that he knelt on the turf beneath that friendly gleam of light, and prayed to it as a devotee would pray to the shrine of his favourite saint, the happy tears running down his face.
‘God bless my darling!’ he said softly. ‘God bless her!’
The desire again to see her face, to hear her voice, was too strong to be resisted. He threw a few pebbles of gravel against the glass, and a moment later the blind was drawn aside. Lady Dulcie saw him standing pale and still in the broad moonlight, and softly raised the window.
‘Desmond, is it you?’
‘Yes, Lady Dulcie. Speak low. Maybe they’re listening. I couldn’t stay away longer; I longed so to see you.’
‘I’ll come down to you,’ she whispered; ‘go to the west door.’
He slipped away, and a minute or two later Dulcie issued from the house, enveloped in a white dressing-gown, her naked feet glistening in rose-coloured slippers. Desmond made an irrepressible motion to take her in his arms, but, remembering his soaked condition, drew back.
‘Why,’ said Dulcie, ‘you’re all dripping wet, you silly boy! What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I’ve been fishing,’ said Desmond.
‘Fishing?’ repeated Dulcie.
‘Yes, sure,’ said the boy, with a happy laugh. ‘I’ve landed the biggest fish of the season. I’ll tell ye all about it by-and-by, Dulcie. Not yet. ’Tis a secret. Haven’t ye a kiss for me?’
Dulcie pecked at the cheek he extended towards her, making a comic little face.
‘What is your secret, Desmond?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you trust me?’
‘Not yet, my jewel,’ said Desmond. ‘Trustmea bit. I’ll tell you this much, dear. Our troubles are over, and I’ll be coming in a day or two to claim ye! Is that as sweet to you to hear as it is to me to say, I wonder?’
‘This is all very mysterious,’ said Dulcie. ‘But you seem very happy, Desmond. Won’t you tell me what has happened?’
‘Not yet. Wait a bit, and be as happy as your curiosity will let you.’
‘You provoking wretch!’ cried Dulcie. ‘I’m sure something has happened; you seem so ridiculously happy.’
‘Then I look as I feel. Tell me,’ he went on, to stave off further questioning on her part, ‘how are things going on here at the Castle? How is Lord Kilpatrick?’
‘He’s better in health,’ replied Dulcie, ‘but he’s very glum and silent, and he keeps his room. He has seen nobody but Peebles, and Mr. Conseltine, and me. He’s dreadfully changed—quite sullen and disagreeable. Oh, by the way, Mr. Conseltine and that son of his were out nearly all day, and when they came back, about an hour ago, I happened to pass them in the hall. They were both dreadfully pale, and looked awfully disturbed and frightened. Has your secret anything to do withthem?
‘Maybe,’ said Desmond. ‘Sure, ’tis no use you asking questions. But ’tis good news I have for you, when the time comes to speak. And now, darling, give me another kiss, and go back indoors.’
He tried hard to hold himself from embracing her, but his arms were round her before he knew it and he strained her to his breast with all his strength.
‘I’ve ruined your gown,’ he said penitently, when the embrace was finished, ‘but I couldn’t help it. You’d draw the soul out of a stone when you look like that. The mischiefs done now, so I’ll take another! Good-night, my angel. Sweet dreams, and a happy waking for ye! If I stay any longer I’ll be breaking down and telling you all, and ’tis best you shouldn’t know for a while.’
During breakfast next morning at the Castle the two Conseltines, father and son, who were usually punctual in their appearance at meal hours, descended late. They were pale and quiet; and Richard, who had his nerves very much less under control than had his astute and resolute parent, was so obviously ill at ease as to bring down upon himself the notice and comments of his lordship. The old nobleman, sick of the seclusion of his solitary chamber, had appeared at the breakfast table, in hopes that a little cheerful society might aid in dissipating the unwelcome reflections which, since Desmond’s departure from the Castle, had beset his waking hours and broken his nightly rest. At no time gifted with the most equable temper in the world, he was particularly snappish and irritable that morning.
‘Your lordship will no’ hae heard the news, I’m thinking,’ said Peebles, standing at the sideboard and breaking in upon the uneasy silence. His eyes dwelt, as if by accident, upon Richard Consel-tine’s face as he spoke, and the young man’s pale complexion assumed a greenish hue.
‘What news are you talking about?’ asked Kilpatrick.
‘There was a fire last night,’ answered Peebles.
Richard, conscious of his father’s coldly threatening eye, spilled half the contents of the glass of brandy-and-soda by which he had that morning replaced the soberer beverages usually in demand at the breakfast table, and conveyed the remainder to his lips with a shaking hand.
‘A fire! Where?’ asked Kilpatrick.
‘At the old mill up by the burn,’ said Peebles. ‘’Twas burned to the ground, I’m told, and there’s some talk of an old peasant woman, a gangrel strange body that they had gien shelter to, having been burned wi’ it.’
‘God bless my soul!’ murmured his lordship. ‘Has the body been found?’
Richard emitted an involuntary gasp, and clung with his feet to the leg of the table.
‘No,’ returned Peebles, ‘not yet. There’s just the chance it never may be. A good part o’ the blazing timbers fell into the burn and were carried awa’, and it’s like eneuch the body went wi’ them—or maybe they’ll come upon it digging among the ruins.’
‘Who was the woman?’ asked Dulcie,
‘Does anybody know her?’
‘Nobody that I ken o’,’ returned Peebles, with an immovable face. ‘A bit tramp body.’
‘Deuced odd,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘How could a place like that, miles away from anywhere, catch fire? Is there any suspicion of arson?’
‘’Deed,’ said Peebles, ‘I don’t know why there should be. Who is there that wad do siccan mischief? To be sure,’ he added, with a reflective air, ‘the woman might have enemies. Those tramps are a waesome lot to deal wi’—but it’s most likely that she did it hersel’ by accident, poor thing. We’ll just hope so, for the sake o’ human charity—till we get further information, anyway.’ He looked at Richard again as he spoke the last words, and had some difficulty in repressing any sign of the angry scorn he felt at sight of the young man’s livid face. ‘It’s hard on Larry, dacent lad,’ he continued.
‘I’m thinking that your lordship might do worse than start a subscription for him.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Kilpatrick.
‘I’ll give five pounds. You have my leave, Peebles, to say so, and to ask for subscriptions in my name.’
‘I’ll give five,’ said Dulcie.
‘I shall be glad to follow so good an example,’ said Conseltine. He strove hard to speak in his usual smooth fashion, but his voice sounded harsh and unsteady to his own ears. He gave Richard an angrily prompting look, and the boy tried to speak, but his tongue rattled against the roof of his mouth. ‘I thought you would,’ said Conseltine, quickly interpreting the inarticulate sound issuing from his son’s throat as an expression of charitable sympathy. ‘Put Richard and myself down for ten pounds, if you please, Mr. Peebles.’
‘I thank ye, Lady Dulcie and gentlemen,’ said Peebles. ‘It’s good to hae feeling hearts, and the means of proving that ye hae them. I’ll let ye know any later news—if the body’s found, or anything o’ that kind.’
‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ his lordship asked of Richard, with sudden acerbity. Richard was as white as death, and shivering like a leaf.
‘It’s the heat, or—or something,’ he managed to stammer out.
‘Let me help you to your room, my boy,’ said his father.
He rose, and supported Richard from the table, hiding as well as he could his pitiable condition.
‘You cowardly fool!’ he hissed in his ear, when he had got him to his own chamber and locked the door. ‘Do you want to ruin us? What are ye afraid of, ye shaking poltroon?’
‘He knows!’ gasped Richard; ‘I could see it in his eye; he knows.’
‘Knows!’ echoed Conseltine scornfully.
‘What does he know?’
‘He knows that the woman at the mill was Moya Macartney.’
‘And if he does,’ said Conseltine, ‘what then? What can he prove?’
‘He knows more than that, I’ll swear!’ cried Richard. ‘I saw him look at me. He knows enough to hang us.’
‘Hang us!’ repeated the elder. ‘By the saints, I’ve a mind to save the hangman half his work, you white-livered, croaking coward!’
‘Ifhedoesn’t know, Blake does,’ said Richard.
‘Leave Blake to me,’ said his father.
‘I’ll look after Blake. ’Twill be a question of money; he’ll bleed us pretty freely, I expect; but if he opens his mouth too wide I’ll bluff him, and swear he dreamt it. ’Tis two against one, any way; two men of good position and unblemished record against one drunken vagabond.
They can prove nothing, let them talk as they may. Feagus will hold his tongue for his own sake, for if the case comes before the court there are three to swear that he suggested the business. There’s no danger at all, except from your cursed cowardice. Pull yourself together, and trust to me. They can prove no motive. Why should you and I go burning mills and killing old peasant women? Feagus is the only creature alive who knows that we were aware of Moya’s identity. Keep a cool head, and you’ll be Lord Kilpatrick before long.’
The task which Peebles had undertaken was no easy one, and the more he contemplated it, the more difficult it seemed to grow. He racked his brains over the problem of how to make known to one in so precarious a condition of health as Lord Kilpatrick the secret of Moya’s continued existence, and of her presence in the neighbourhood. The difficulty was complicated by the cowardly and criminal attempt on her life by two members of his lordship’s family, for the honour of which the faithful old servant was deeply concerned. That two such scoundrels should still be permitted to prey on the kindness of his master, and diminish Desmond’s patrimony, was intolerable; that they should be publicly charged with their crime was impossible. Feagus, too, was in the same boat, and must also be permitted to escape, for it was impossible to denounce him without bringing the crime of the Conseltines to light. But, then, there was the chance—the strong chance—of the gossip of the countryside bringing to their ears the knowledge of Moya’s continued existence, and what three such scoundrels might do to cover their unsuccessful attempt, and to secure their endangered booty, it was hard to say.
The need for decisive action was pressing, but in what direction was that action to be taken? One course, and one course only, seemed to Peebles clear for the moment. It was in his power to secure Moya’s safety from any further attempt. That could be done by simply telling the two villains now in the house that their nefarious proceeding of the night before was known. Once resolved, Peebles was as bold a man as any that ever trod shoe-leather; and with such a weapon as was furnished by his hold over the two Conseltines he would have faced an army. His resolution taken, he walked with an assured foot upstairs to Richard’s bedroom, and knocked at the door; it was opened by the elder man.
‘I’d like a word with you, if you please, Mr. Conseltine,’ he said.
‘Presently, Mr. Peebles, presently,’ said the other, who did not care to expose his son and confederate to the old man’s keen eye in his present pitiful condition of nervous excitement. ‘We have business of importance together.’
‘It must be business o’ very great importance,’ said Peebles, ‘if it can’t wait till mine is finished.’
Conseltine’s hard eye dwelt on the old man’s face, and his lips twitched in a hopeless attempt to maintain their impassivity.
‘You are importunate, my old friend,’ he said.
‘Ye’d better listen to me,’ returned the grim old servitor.
Conseltine stood aside to allow him to enter, and closed and locked the door behind him. Richard was seated on the bed. He made a terrible and clumsy effort to seem at ease as Peebles’ gaze passed lightly over him before it settled again on his father.
‘Well, sir?’ said Conseltine as calmly as he could.
‘Before making the communication I hae to make,’ said Peebles, his usual slow and deliberate drawl more slow and deliberate than ever, ‘I hae to tell ye that, but for the honour o’ the house I’ve served man and boy for five-and-forty years, I should have conseedered it my duty as a good citizen to hand you and your son, Mr. Richard Conseltine, here present, into the hands o’ justice.’
Neither of the persons he addressed making any reply to this preamble, Peebles continued:
‘When Larry’s mill was burned down last night, the woman once known as Moya Macartney, best known to you and me, Mr. Conseltine, as Lady Kilpatrick, was leeving there.’
That Conseltine knew of Moya’s claim to the title Peebles gave her was only a shrewd guess of the latter’s, but the start and pallor with which Conseltine heard the words showed the old man that the shaft had struck home.
‘The mill,’ continued Peebles, ‘was fired by you and your son there, in complicity wi’ one Feagus, the lawyer, wi’ the object of destroying the unfortunate lady, your brother’s wife.’
Richard gave a sort of feeble gulp at this, and cowered terror-stricken on the bed.
‘It’s by no virtue o’ yours, Mr. Conseltine, that your wicked will was not worked. Moya Macartney, Lady Kilpatrick, is alive and safe. She was rescued from death by her son, Desmond Conseltine, sole lawfully begotten son and heir of my master, Lord Kilpatrick.’
‘Damn you!’ cried Richard, leaping from the bed at these words with a flash of hysteric anger conquering his fears.
‘You come and tell us this! Father——!’
‘Hold your tongue!’ said the elder man quietly. ‘Don’t play the fool, Richard Conseltine.’
Peebles looked at him with a kind of loathing admiration of his courage and coolness.
‘If you’ve any more to say, Mr. Peebles,’ Conseltine continued, ‘you’d better get it over.’
‘Just this,’ said the old man: ‘ye’ll hold your tongue about the business till I see fit to speak. Ye’ll cease to trade on his lordship’s generosity, and rob the poor lad ye’ve kept out of his rights all these years, and the poor woman ye’ve tried to murder. And if in a day or two ye can manage to find some business o’ sufficient importance to tak’ ye awa’ oot o’ this place, and to keep ye awa’ oot o’t for the rest o’ your natural lives, so much the better. I don’t think,’ he added reflectively, as he scraped his lean jaws thoughtfully with his long fingers—‘I don’t think there’s any ither thing to be arranged. Ye’d better keep clear o’ Blake, perhaps.’
‘One word, Mr. Peebles,’ said Conseltine, as the old man turned to go.
‘When do you intend to break to my brother the news of—of that woman being alive?’
‘I canna preceesely tell ye,’ returned Peebles. ‘As soon’s I think he’s strong enough to hear it. In the mean time, Mr. Conseltine, ye’d best ca’ cannie. I’m secret in the game till ye try another move; but if ye do, I’ll split on ye, as sure as God’s in heaven!’
Peebles had left the Conseltines barely half an hour when a message was brought to him in his pantry that Mr. Blake of Blake’s Hall would be glad to have the pleasure of a word with him. Blake, being ushered into the old man’s private room, immediately demanded whisky, and, having been supplied, inquired of Peebles what was the news concerning Moya.
‘I met Larry as I was coming here. Sure, he’s like a madman, raving about the poor woman that must have been burned wid the mill, though sorra a chip of her bones or a rag of her dress have they found.’
‘They’re no likely to find anything,’ said Peebles. ‘I went straight to Desmond last night, and he was just in time to rescue her from the awfu’ death the villains had plotted for her.’
‘Glad am I to know it,’ said Blake. ‘Are the rogues laid by the heels yet?’
‘No,’ said Peebles, ‘nor will they be, wi’ my good will. Man, ’twould break my lord’s heart! His ain brother, Mr. Blake! his ain brother’s son! No, no. They must be let gang, for the honour o’ the family, though it’s a hard lump to swallow, and goes terribly against my conscience, that twa such wretches should be free while many a decent man’s in prison. But there’s just no help for it. And noo, just tell me, Mr. Blake, are ye sober—sober enough, I mean, to know the value of what ye’re saying?’
‘Sober, is it?’ cried Blake. ‘Soberer than I’ve been this five-and-twenty years, bad luck to me!’
‘Then listen to me,’ said Peebles. ‘’Twas you that married his lordship to Moya Macartney?’
‘’Twas so,’ returned Blake.
‘And ye had really been ordained a clerk in holy orders before that time?’
‘I had, but when I performed the ceremony I used a false name.’
‘That makes no difference,’ returned Peebles. ‘You were a clergyman, you are a clergyman, and a clergyman you’ll die. Holy orders are indelible! I ken that much, though I’m no churchman mysel’. Noo, Moya’s safe, and it’s my intention, jest as soon as it can be done withoot chance of damage to my lord’s health, to break the news to him, and I’ll look to you to put all possible assistance in the way o’ proving your possession o’ the necessary power to perform a legal marriage.’
‘H’m!’ said Blake doubtfully.
‘And what the deil d’ye mean by “h’m”?’ asked Peebles.
‘You’re talkin’ mighty aisy,’ said Blake, ‘of my givin’ up the only means o’ livelihood I’ve had these years past.’
‘Means o’ livelihood,’ repeated Peebles. ‘You’re doited, man alive! What has this question to do wi’ your means of livelihood?’
‘Just the blackmail that Dick Conseltine has paid me to hold my tongue,’ replied Blake with a beautiful candour.
‘That’s all o’er now,’ said Peebles. ‘He kens that Moya’s alive, and he kens thatIken it. Eh, Patrick Blake,’ he continued, shaking his head reproachfully at the burly figure opposite him, ‘ye’ve been a sad scoun’rel in your time, I doubt. But ye helped to save that puir lass’s life, and I’ll no be hard on ye. What can be done for ye in reason shall be done. Maybe the wages o’ honesty won’t amount to as much as the wages o’ sin, but ye’ll hae a clearer conscience to mak’ up the balance. I can promise naething, but I’ll speak to Desmond and my lord. I’m thinking ye’d be best oot o’ the country. Some hundred pounds and a passage to America would suit ye fine.’
‘Emigration!’ said Blake. ‘’Twas that Dick Conseltine was advising the other day. Faix, ye’re all in a mighty hurry to get rid o’ poor old Pat Blake. Well, Peebles, I’ll trust ye. I’ve always found ye square and honest, and I like the boy. I’d rather see him with the title than that ape cub o’ Dick Conseltine’s, any day of the year. As for the help I can give ye, well, there’s me licence to preach, marry, and bury, signed by the Bishop, and granted at Maynooth College. I’ve got it at home at Blake’s Hall to this day, and faith, if that’s not enough, I can find a score o’ people at my old cure who’ll remember me and swear to my identity.’
At this moment he was interrupted by a rap at the pantry door, and a servant announced that Peebles was needed in my lord’s chamber.
‘Wait here,’ said the old man to Blake. ‘I’ll no’ be long.’
Peebles mounted the stairs, and found Kilpatrick seated at the open window of his room. He gave some commonplace instructions which could quite easily have been fulfilled by any other servant in the house. Peebles, who knew his master’s mind as though he had made him, obeyed the orders, and stood at his elbow silently.
‘Well, Peebles? well?’ asked Kilpatrick. ‘Well, my lord?’ said Peebles,
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘For your lordship’s orders.’
Kilpatrick sat twisting his fingers in a nervous silence for a second or two, and then abruptly asked:
‘Where’s Desmond? I suppose you’ve seen him lately?’
‘Ay!’ said Peebles, ‘I saw him last night.’
‘And what had the young scamp to say for himself? Still on the high horse, I suppose? When does he propose to honour my house with his presence again?’ ‘God forgive us!’ said Peebles, shaking his head at his master with a mournful reproof. ‘“Still on his high horse,” quotha! ’Tis you that are walking wi’ the bare feet o’ conscience in the mire o’ repentance, if your silly pride would let ye own till it.’
Kilpatrick tried to look angrily at the old man, but the continued slow shake of Peebles’ head, and the calm penetration of the eyes that dwelt on his, cowed him.
‘I ask you, Peebles,’ he cried suddenly, ‘is not my position a hard one?’
‘Sair hard,’ said Peebles; ‘but ye made it yoursel’, and ye hae nae right to grumble.’
‘It’s harder than I deserve,’ cried Kilpatrick. ‘If—if it was the—the just measure of punishment for—for that silly indiscretion of years ago, I should not complain, but——’
‘My lord!’ said Peebles, ‘dinna gang beyond God’s patience. “Just measure o’ punishment!” “too hard!” I wonder ye hae the presumption to sit in that chair, and talk to me that ken the circumstances.’
‘Hold your tongue, confound you!’ said his master.
‘That will I no’,’ returned Peebles, ’till as your speeritual weelwisher and your carnal servant I hae done my best to purge your heart o’ the black vanity ye cherish.’
‘Go to the devil, you canting old scoundrel!’ screamed Kilpatrick.
‘After your lordship,’ said Peebles suavely, and flowed on before the angry old gentleman could stop him. ‘You say your lot’s a hard one? You complain that Providence is punishing you too severely? Man, ye are just like a spoiled child, that sets a house afire in his wantonness, and then thinks he’s badly treated because he gets his fingers burnt. Your lot a hard one! What about the lot o’ the innocent lass that trusted ye, and that ye ruined and slew? What about the bright bonny lad that God put it into his mither’s heart to send here t’ ye, that should hae been a sound o’ peace in your ears, a light unto your eyes, a sermon to your understanding, ilka day this eighteen years bygone? What about his shame and anguish, his loss of respect and belief in all his kind, because you, the one man he loved and trusted most, turned to base metal in his sight? And ye are hardly treated! Gin ye had your deserts, Henry Conseltine, Lord Kilpatrick, ye’d be on the treadmill at this minute. There’s many an honester man than you that’s praying God this minute for bread and water to stay his carnal pangs, while ye sit here, full o’ meat, and puffed out wi’ idleness. Ill treated! Ma certie!’ cried the old man, with a fall from an almost Biblical solemnity of phrase to latter-day colloquialism which would have seemed ludicrous to any third person. ‘Ye’re no blate! Perhaps ye’d like a step up in the peerage for havin’ ruined an honest lassie and broken a poor lad’s heart?’
‘Upon my soul,’ said Kilpatrick, twisting in his chair, ‘I don’t know why I stand your infernal impudence.’
‘For the same reason,’ returned Peebles, ‘that you stand the infernal impudence o’ your ain conscience. Ye’ve been trying to drug and bullythatinto quiet a’ these years, and ye’ve no succeeded yet, and ne’er will, the Lord be praised! Ye ask,’ he continued, ‘if Desmond’s on his high horse yet? Ay, is he—on a higher horse than ever.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kilpatrick.
‘Circumstances have come to light this last day or twa,’ said Peebles, ‘that put a new complexion on a’ this business.’
‘What circumstances?’ asked his lordship wonderingly.
‘Strange circumstances,’ said Peebles. ‘I’ve news for ye that’ll mak’ your ears to tingle, I’m thinking.’
‘Curse you!’ cried the old man; ‘can’t you speak out, instead of jibbering and jabbering in this fashion, you old death’s-head!’
‘Ye’re a foul-mouthed person, Lord Kilpatrick,’ said Peebles dryly, ‘but let that flea stick to the wall. I’ve news for ye that it will tak’ courage to listen to.’
‘Man alive!’ cried Kilpatrick; ‘for the love of God don’t waste your time and my patience in this fashion! What is your news?’
‘Just this,’ said the old man slowly and deliberately: ‘The marriage with Moya Macartney, that ye believed to be a sham marriage—the more shame to ye for it—was no’ a sham at all, but as good a marriage as was ever made between man and maid on this earth, and as binding!’
Kilpatrick stared at him like one distraught, breathing heavily, and grasping the side-pieces of his armchair with twitching fingers.
‘’Tis sooth I’m tellin’ ye,’ returned Peebles. ‘Blake was in holy orders. He’d been deprived of his cure and he performed the ceremony under a false name, but he’d ne’er been disfrocked. Desmond is your lawfully begotten son—your heir!’
Kilpatrick’s reception of this astounding news fairly astonished the old man. After the first dumfoundering effect of the communication had passed, Kilpatrick sprang from his chair, his face flushed, his eyes glittering.
‘Is it true? Is it true?’
‘True as death!’ responded Peebles.
‘Where is he?’ cried the old man. ‘For God’s sake, Peebles, bring him here! Let me see him!’
His face darkened with a sudden expression of doubt.
‘Peebles,’ he cried brokenly; ‘you’re not playing with me? You’re not deceiving me? I’ve been a good master to you these years past; you couldn’t—you wouldn’t——’
‘God forbid!’ said Peebles. ‘It’s gospel truth.’
‘But,’ asked Kilpatrick, ‘why has Blake been silent all these years?’
‘Because,’ said Peebles, ‘Richard Conseltine has made it worth his while.’
‘By Heaven!’ cried the old lord, ‘I’ll break every bone in Dick’s body! Peebles, you don’t know what I’ve suffered all these years. Even from you I’ve hidden my miseries. I’ve looked at Desmond, standing side by side with that ugly cub of Dick’s, and ground my teeth to think that I couldn’t leave the title to him. God bless you, Peebles—God bless you for the news! ‘Fore Gad! I shall go mad with joy. Peebles, I’ll double your wages if you’ll get the boy here in an hour from now. What are you standing glowering there for? Run, you old rascal, run, and bring Desmond to me! My eyes are hungry for him! I’ll acknowledge him before the world! He shall marry Dulcie before the week’s out, and I’ll live to nurse my grandson yet! Dick’s face will be a sight to see when he learns that I know this.’
Peebles did not move. He was revolving in his mind the wisdom of at once breaking to Kilpatrick the news that the wife he deemed dead was living.
‘Desmond shall do that,’ he said to himself. ‘Ay, Desmond shall do that. ’Twill come better from him. My lord’s heart will be softened. ’Twill be less of a shock than ifItold him. Ay, ay,’ he said aloud, as Kilpatrick impatiently bade him begone and fetch Desmond. ‘He shall be here inside an hour, my lord.’
‘God bless you, old friend,’ said his lordship, shaking hands with him. ‘You’re a pragmatical old Puritan, but you’ve taken ten years off my age to-day.’
Peebles descended to the pantry, where he found Blake still in intimate converse with the whisky bottle.
‘Mr. Blake, would ye do my lord and me a service?’
‘By my troth, I will, then,’ said Blake.
Peebles called a groom, and bade him prepare a horse and carriage.
‘I want ye, Mr. Blake, to drive to Maguire’s cottage over at Cornboy. There you’ll find Moya Macartney—tell her she must come with you. Then drive on to Doolan’s Farm, and pick up Desmond. Bring them both here, and I’ll have a boy posted in the road to warn me that ye’re coming.’