Four of our leading characters, including our best apology for a hero,
have introduced themselves. All that remains to be explained, at least
for the present, is that Dulcie Broadhaven, called by courtesy Lady
Dulcie, was the youngest daughter of Lord Belmullet, who had married
Lord Kilpatrick’s only sister and left her a widow with several children
and heavily mortgaged estates in county Mayo; and that Dulcie was just
then paying one of her annual visits to her uncle’s castle in Sligo.
Here she had struck up a friendship with young Desmond, who had for
years been a sort of protégé of Lord Kilpatrick. Only in the wild west
of Ireland are such intimacies common or even possible, but there, where
the greater and the smaller gentry still meet on terms of free and
easy equality, and where the vices of more civilized society are still
unknown, they excite no comment.
Mr. Blake’s abrupt and angry departure from the Castle left anything but
comfortable feelings in the breasts of one or two of his late
convives. Lord Kilpatrick, an elderly nobleman, whose originally feeble
constitution had not been improved by early dissipation, and who was
afflicted with a mysterious cardiac disorder, which caused him constant
nervous tremors, was in a condition of semi-senile anger over Blake’s
violation of the sanctities of his dinner-table. Mr. Feagus, Blake’s
_bête noire_, was naturally and excusably enraged by the terms of
unmeasured contempt in which the latter had addressed him. He was almost
as great a rascal as Blake thought him, but he had a full measure of the
commonest of Irish virtues, brute courage; and had it not been for the
interference of my lord’s brother, Mr. Conseltine, his son Richard, and
old Mr. Peebles, my lord’s butler, valet, general factotum, and
tyrant, Blake might have had cause to regret his outrage on his host’s
hospitality.
‘The beggarly bankrupt brute!’ he cried. ‘By the blood of the saints,
Mr. Conseltine, if ’Twas not for the respect I owe you as my lord’s
brother--ye used me ill, sir, in holding me back!’
Conseltine, a dark man of late middle age, with an inscrutable face and
a manner of unvarying suavity, poured a bumper of burgundy, and held it
out to the angry attorney.
‘Drink that, Mr. Feagus. ’Tis a fine cure for anger. Maybe I’ve not
used you so ill as you think. Mr. Peebles,’ he continued, ‘you had
better assist my brother to his room. Pray be calm, my dear Henry.
The disturbance is over. If you will permit me, I will do myself the
pleasure of looking in on you before retiring.’
His lordship, his face twitching, and his hands tremulous with anger,
sat back in his chair, and pettishly brushed the old Scotchman’s hand
from his shoulder.
‘At my table!’ he ejaculated angrily, for the sixth time.
‘Ay,’ said Peebles, with a broad, dogmatic drawl. ‘Ye should keep better
company. Come awa’, my lord, come awa’. Ye’ll get nae good by sitting
there glowering at folk.’
‘Hold your tongue, sir!’ snapped the nobleman. ‘How dare you address me
in that fashion?’
‘Come awa’, come awa’,’ repeated Peebles gently, as one speaks to a
froward child. ‘Ye’ll be doing yourself a mischief.’
The old lord rose tremulously, and left the room on his servant’s arm.
Mr. Conseltine stepped rapidly forward to open the door, and shook his
brother’s hand as he passed from the room. Then, returning, he addressed
Feagus, who was still puffing with anger.
‘Sit down, Mr. Feagus. Fill again, man, and wash the taste of that
drunken blackguard out of your mouth. Yes, yes,’ he continued, seeing
Feagus about to speak; ‘he’s all that you could call him, but he has to
be endured; he knows too much to be crossed.’
‘Knows?’ snorted Feagus; ‘and what does he know, then?’
Conseltine looked warily round before replying, and then, bending across
the table till his face was within a foot of Feagus’s, he said in a low
voice:
‘He knows all about Moya Macartney.’
‘Moya Macartney!’ echoed his son. ‘And who, pray, is Moya Macartney?’
‘She was a peasant girl, away down in Kenmare. My brother married her--a
sham marriage--’Twas Blake that played priest for him, and pretended
to be in Holy Orders.’
‘That’s true!’ murmured Feagus. ‘And after--tell him what came of it!’
‘The old story. Henry grew tired of his plaything. One day, when the
child--they had a child--was two years old, he told Moya the truth. She
went on like a madwoman for a time, and then went quite cold and
quiet. Henry thought ’Twas all right, and that she had accepted the
situation; but within two hours she disappeared, taking the child with
her, and for a month or two nothing was heard of her.’
‘Well?’ said Dick eagerly.
‘Then,’ continued Conseltine, ‘one night--a devilish cold winter’s night
it was, too--the boy was brought to my brother with a letter. “Take your
child,” the letter said, “and as you use him may God use you! You’ll
never hear from me again.” ’Twas signed “Moya Macartney,” and a week
later her body was found on the sands of Kenmare Bay.’
‘A good riddance,’ said Feagus. ‘And now, Dick, guess the name of the
child!’
Dick looked questioningly at his father, who said quietly:
‘The child is the Squireen, Desmond Macartney.’
Feagus gazed sideways from under his ponderous brows at young
Conseltine. The boy’s sullen mask was almost as inscrutable as his
father’s smooth face.
‘Does Desmond Macartney guess that he’s my lord’s son?’ asked the youth.
‘No,’ said Conseltine. ‘A story was trumped up that he was the orphan
son of people to whom my brother owed obligations. He’s too big a fool
to trouble himself asking questions.’
‘Well, then,’ said Feagus, ‘spake out and let me know what ’tis ye
fear.’
‘I fear my brother’s weakness. He may leave all to this young vagabond.
He’s been conscience-haunted about Moya Macartney’s death ever since it
happened, and I know that more than once he has made his will in favour
of the Squireen. There’s not a square yard of the estate entailed. He
could leave it to a beggar in the street if he liked, and Dick would get
nothing but the title. I’m as certain as I can be that he has sent for
you to make a will; and with that old rascal Peebles always whispering
in his ears, praising the bastard, and running down Dick, there’s
danger.’
‘Well?’ asked the lawyer, after a pause.
‘Well?’ Conseltine’s smooth voice echoed him.
There was silence for a full minute, during which Feagus sat looking
over his glass from father to son.
‘Plain speech is best, Mr. Conseltine. I’m a friend of the family--a
humble friend--and I’d like to see justice. Will ye spake straight, and
say what ye’d have done?’
Conseltine smiled with half-shut eyes.
‘I thought you’d understand me,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m sure that the
interests of the family are safe in your hands, and you may be sure that
the family won’t be ungrateful.’
‘Ye can trust me, sor,’ said Feagus. ‘I’ll take care that justice is
done. Ye needn’t fear your brother’s wakeness if I have the drawin’ o’
the will.’
Conseltine nodded again. The worthy trio brought their glasses together
with a light chink, and drank.
‘You see now,’ continued Conseltine, ‘why Blake has to be humoured. He’s
capable of blowing on us in one of his drunken tantrums, and then the
whole story would be ripped up.’ Feagus nodded.
‘Keep out of his way, Mr. Feagus, or, if you meet him, control your
temper. That’s all I wanted to say, and I think we understand each
other.’
‘Fairly well,’ said Feagus.
‘’Tis a pretty kettle o’ fish I’m stirring,’ he said to himself, when
father and son had left him alone; ‘but I’ll be surprised if I don’t
keep the biggest trout for my own share. I’ll help Conseltine to get
the estates, and then I’ll be on his back like the old man o’ the sea
on Sinbad’s. Here’s success to virtue! ‘’tis a fine drink this, and
’tis not often, Jack Feagus, that ye get the chance of drinkin’ real
wine out of a live lord’s cellar.’
Lord Kilpatrick had meanwhile been conducted to the drawing-room by the
faithful, though outwardly unsympathetic, Peebles. Sitting at the open
oriel window in a high-backed antique chair, he drew in the soft evening
air with tremulous gulps. His face, which in youth and manhood had been
singularly handsome, was drawn with pain and pettish anger, and wore
that peculiar gray tinge so often seen in the complexions of people
afflicted with diseases of the heart. His long, waxen fingers drummed
irritably on the arm-pieces of his chair, so that the rings with which
they were decorated cast out coruscations of coloured light.
Peebles, a long, dry Scotchman, who but for his white hair might have
been of any age from thirty-five to eighty, long in leg and arm, long
in the back, long in the nose and upper-lip, shrewd of eye, dry and
deliberate in action, moved soundlessly about the room until summoned by
his master’s voice.
‘Peebles!’
‘My lord?’
‘How do I look? No flattery, now. Speak out.’
‘Much flattery ye’ll get frae me, or ever did,’ muttered Peebles, taking
his stand before the invalid, and scrutinizing him with a cast-iron
countenance of no name-able expression.
‘Well, Peebles, well! How do I look?’
‘My lord,’ said Peebles, after another thirty seconds’ inspection, ‘you
look as green as grass and as sick as peasemeal!’
‘Nonsense! Pooh! Rubbish!’ Each word shot out of his lordship’s mouth
like a bullet, ‘I never felt better.’
‘Ye never looked worse,’ said Peebles.
‘God bless my soul!’ said his lordship. ‘It must be those damn’d
globules that Clarke is giving me. They’re ruining my liver--actually
ruining it. Infernal idiots of doctors!’ His fingers moved faster. ‘Go
away, Peebles, go away!’
Peebles retired into the background, and stood scraping his lantern jaws
with his right hand.
‘Peebles!’ said the old gentleman presently.
‘My lord?’
‘You don’t think----’ Lord Kilpatrick paused, hem’d, and finally shot
the question out of himself with a suddenness which showed how strong
a repugnance he had to conquer before he could ask it--‘you don’t think
I’m going to _die?_’
‘Ye don’t suppose ye’re _immortal_, do ye?’ asked the unbending
servitor.
‘Of course not! Confound you for an unfeeling blockhead!’ cried his
master. ‘Give me your advice--tell me what to do.’
‘I’m to prescribe for ye?’ asked Peebles, looking, as he stood outlined
against the oblong of white sky seen through the window, like the
silhouette of some curious species of parrot.
‘If you can!’
‘What else have I been doing this last nineteen years,’ asked Peebles,
‘but prescribing the one sure remedy ye winna tak’? My lord, your
disease is pride.
Try the black draught of humility and the blue pill of atonement!’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ asked his lordship, looking
angrily at his servant, who returned his gaze quite unmoved.
‘Ye know weel what I’m talkin’ aboot,’ he returned, with no quickening
of his usual deliberate drawl. ‘Acknowledge your child, Lord Kilpatrick,
and thank God humbly on your knees for such a son to bless your
declining years.’
‘By Heaven!’ cried his lordship, sitting up in his chair, ‘you--you--how
dare you trifle with me?’ The gray shade deepened on his face, his
trembling hands were pressed against his heart. ‘I have done my
uttermost. I have provided for the boy. I have looked after his
welfare--can a man do more?’
‘Ay, he can! Desmond Macartney is your flesh and blood. Acknowledge him
before the world--it’s all the atonement ye can make to the poor lass
that’s gone.’
‘She was not my wife!’
‘Ay was she,’ returned Peebles, ‘in the sight o’ God!’
His lordship struggled up in his seat with an oath.
‘That’s enough! You are out of my service, Peebles, from this moment--I
discharge you!’
‘I’m agreeable,’ said Peebles, with unmoved calm.
‘And without a character--mind that!’
‘Character, is it?’ said the dour old Scot. ‘If ever I need one,
I’ll gang till a God-fearing man, and no’ till your father’s son.
Good-afternoon to your lordship.’ Peebles had reached the door when his
lordship’s voice arrested him:
‘Stay--stay! I--ha!--I command you!’ ‘Too late!’ said Peebles coolly.
‘I’m no longer at your lordship’s orders--I’m discharged.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Why do you provoke me, Peebles? I have
been a good master to you--a forbearing master. If we parted I should--I
should miss you.’
‘No doot o’ that,’ returned Peebles, smiling. ‘Dismiss me, and ye
dismiss your conscience. Dismiss me, and the Deil has ye, tooth and
nail.’
His lordship laughed, but with no aspect of enjoyment.
‘You’re an assuming old scoundrel, Peebles. My conscience? Gad!--my
conscience, indeed!’
‘Ay, and your conscience says, “Make amends to your own begotten son,
the bairn of the puir lass who died for your sake, and who loved ye,
Lord Kilpatrick.”’
The old lord’s head sank upon his breast; his eyes were dim with a
sudden moisture.
‘I loved _her_, Peebles--I loved her!’
‘And yet ye played that deil’s trick on her, with the aid o’ yon
scoundrel Blake.’
‘How could I marry one so much my inferior?’ asked Kilpatrick
tremulously.
‘And yet there are moments when I think that if--if she had not--if she
had had a little more patience, I might have done it. There, there,’ he
continued, with his usual testiness, ‘let it sleep. Don’t talk about it.
As for Desmond, I have brought him up almost like my own son and heir.
He has wanted nothing--he shall never want. I shall provide for him in
my will.’
‘Grandly, no doot,’ said Peebles, with the abrupt snort which was his
laugh, ‘with Mr. Conseltine at your lug, pleading for that smug-faced
imp, his son.’
‘Desmond shan’t be forgotten,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Nothing on earth shall
make me forget Desmond.’
‘There’s just a chance,’ said Peebles, after an interval of silence,
scraping at his chin--‘there’s just a chance that Desmond, when he kens
ye’re his father, will refuse to tak’ a shilling o’ your money. I
know the lad, for isn’t he like the child o’ my ain old age--haven’t I
watched over him and seen him grow--haven’t I had daily to _lie_ to
him, and tell him that he has neither father nor mother, but only a kind
friend who knew them both--and haven’t I heard his voice break when he
has asked of his dead mother? Man alive!’ he continued, in answer to
Kilpatrick’s stricken look, ‘do your duty--acknowledge your son before
the world! If anything can get ye a free pass through the gates of
heaven, it will be a deed like that!’
‘Gad!’ said Kilpatrick, ‘I’ve a mind to do it, if only to spite my
brother Dick. Peebles, do you think I’m a fool? Do you think I don’t
know Dick Conseltine? He’s looking forward to my funeral. He wants the
estate for young spindleshanks, my nephew. Suppose I showed him a trick
worth two of that, eh? Ha, ha!’
His lordship’s rather spiteful chuckle was cut short by a rap at the
door.
Peebles opened it, and Mr. Conseltine appeared.
‘My dear Henry,’ he said, advancing solicitously, ‘I trust you are
better?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kilpatrick uneasily; ‘but----’
‘In that case,’ said Conseltine, smoothly interrupting him, ‘may I talk
to you privately for a few minutes?’
‘If you desire,’ said his brother. ‘Don’t go, Peebles. Never mind
Peebles, Dick He’s my conscience, my--my _alter ego_--eh, Peebles?’
‘As it is a family matter,’ said Conseltine, ‘I would prefer----’
‘Peebles is one of the family,’ said his lordship; ‘I’ve no secrets from
him.’
‘Very good,’ said Conseltine, suffering no shade of annoyance to
cloud his smooth face. ‘Mr. Peebles doubtless agrees with me that you
exaggerate the gravity of your condition, and that, unless you specially
desire it, the drawing up of a new will can be postponed. In the will
already placed in my possession you, as is natural, devise the bulk
of your estate to your next-of-kin. Do I understand that you desire to
alter or modify that arrangement?’
His lordship, nervously interlacing his fingers, glanced at Peebles.
‘Tell your brother the truth, my lord. Tell him ye wish to leave the
estates to your own begotten son.’
‘My brother has no son, Mr. Peebles,’ said Conseltine sternly.
‘Ay has he,’ said Peebles--‘Desmond Macartney.’
‘The fruit of a foolish liaison with a peasant. My dear Henry----’
‘Peebles is right, Dick,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Desmond should be my heir.’
‘My dear Henry!’ said Conseltine, ‘you must surely be mad. Proclaim
your folly to the world! Acknowledge a waif and stray as your flesh and
blood! It is simply midsummer madness! Thank God, whatever you do
with any portion of your personal possessions, you can’t pass your
patrimonial title to one born out of wedlock.’
Kilpatrick looked from his brother to Peebles, and back again,
interlacing his fingers and dragging them apart.
‘Faith,’ he said, ‘that’s true, that’s true, Peebles. The title must go
to my next-of-kin. It must go. There’s no help for it, and the title,
with nothing to support it! eh? You must see that, Peebles. Gad, I’m
sorry--I’m devilish sorry!’ He rose. ‘Never mind, Peebles, Desmond
shan’t be forgotten. Trust me, he shan’t be forgotten.’
Conseltine offered him his arm, and he took it with a glance at his
servant.
‘Ay, my lord,’ said Peebles, with an immovable face, ‘lean on your
brother. It’s good to have loving kith and kin.’
Voices and laughter were heard from the landing without, and a moment
later Dulcie, with Desmond at her heels, entered the room.