Mr. Richard Conseltine, junior, was not a young man of brilliant parts,
but, like most intellectually slow people, he made up for the paucity of
his ideas by the intensity with which he dwelt on those he possessed.
He had made up his mind quite easily and naturally that his uncle’s
belongings should come to him in their entirety along with the title. He
had grown to early manhood in the unquestioning belief that such would
be the case.
But now, to his amazement, he had learned of the real relationship
existing between his uncle and the Squireen. Up to that moment, Mr.
Conseltine had thought it well to keep the knowledge from his son.
The two boys had hated each other, almost at first sight, with a quiet
instinctive ferocity as of cat and dog. In his sullen grudging fashion
Richard detested all who were not subservient to his wishes and
interests, and especially hated anybody who was his superior in matters
in which he most desired to excel. Desmond, as bright and quick as he
himself was lumpish and dull, compared with him to his disadvantage at
every turn. The poor Squireen, who owned not a single acre of soil, and
was dependent upon Richard’s uncle for his daily bread, for the clothes
he wore, was the idol of the district. Mr. Richard Conseltine, the
independent young gentleman of birth and means, was everywhere tacitly,
and not unfrequently overtly, set at naught. In those exercises
which are popular in all rural districts, and especially among the
sport-loving people of Ireland, Desmond was easily Richard’s master. He
was the best shot, rider, angler, boxer, dancer, and fly-fisherman of
his years in the county. He was handsome in person, and had with all
women, young or old, that serene and beautiful assurance which of all
masculine qualities recommends itself most instantly to the feminine
heart.
All women loved him, and did their best to spoil him. Every man and boy
on the estate was his willing servant and accomplice in the freaks and
frolics and breaches of discipline in which he delighted, confident that
the simple excuse, ‘’Twas the Squireen that asked me,’ would be quite
sufficient to calm the wrath of my lord or his agent, or even of the
dreaded Mr. Peebles, before whom, it was popularly believed, even his
lordship trembled.
Richard could not but contrast this willing and eager service with the
frigid obedience which was paid to him as the future owner of the soil.
Had he been other than he was, he might have found a lesson in the
contrast, and have penetrated the simple secret of Desmond’s popularity,
which lay more in his sunny good-temper, his quick sympathy, his courage
and generosity, than in the physical superiorities which so galled his
cousin’s envious mind.
Ideas, it has been said, were not common with Richard, but the evening
of the events just recorded was made additionally memorable to him by
the implanting of a new one in his mind. He had happened to pass on
the terrace below the open window of the drawing-room during the
conversation held between Lord Kilpatrick and the faithful Peebles.
The window was open, and the calm evening air had brought one single
utterance of the old servant’s distinctly to his ears.
‘There’s just a chance,’ the deliberate Scotch voice had said, ‘that
Desmond, when he kens ye’re his father, will refuse to tak’ a shilling
o’ your money.’
Now, the moment Richard was made aware of Desmond’s illegitimacy, the
secret began to tremble at his lips. He longed to dash the insolent
triumph of the nameless adventurer who diminished his chances of
succession, and by every morsel he ate seemed to lessen the future
possessions of the rightful heir. He was only restrained from insulting
Desmond on the score of his birth by his father’s strenuous assurance
that to touch on that matter might be to lose his uncle’s favour at once
and for ever. Conseltine senior had impressed that belief on him very
forcibly. Richard rolled the sweet morsel of insolence round his tongue
a score of times, with a rich anticipation of the time when it should be
safe to humiliate his adversary by full publicity.
Peebles’ words came to him as a veritable revelation. For just a minute
the solution of the whole difficulty, so long sought, so ardently
desired, seemed almost ludicrously easy. He had only to acquaint the
Squireen with the truth in order to secure the even greater and much
more solid pleasure of inheriting his uncle’s estate. Then a doubt came
and chilled him. We are all apt to fancy that our neighbour’s conduct
in any given conditions will closely resemble our own conduct under like
circumstances. Richard knew, and--no criminal being ashamed of his own
instincts--confessed to himself quite openly and with no embarrassment,
that if he, in Desmond’s place, had learned the secret of his birth, the
effects of the knowledge would certainly not be those foreshadowed by
Peebles. Rather the contrary! The stain on his name would have been
an added claim on the generosity of the father who had so wronged him.
Still, a fiery-tempered fool like Desmond might think differently.
Peebles’ words stuck in his mind, and returned during the night with a
constant reiteration, keeping sleep at arm’s length. Again and again his
clumsy imagination tried to realize the effects of the betrayal of
the secret, until he determined to take the trouble to his father, and
consult with him as to the best line of conduct to be followed.
He descended to the breakfast-table to find my lord and his father
seated together there, attended by Peebles, but neither Desmond
nor Dulcie was present. In answer to a remark on their absence from
Kilpatrick, Peebles deposed to having heard them laughing and talking on
the lawn at least three hours earlier, and suggested that they had gone
on one of their eternal excursions. Breakfast was almost over when they
appeared, flushed and radiant. Kilpatrick had shown some testiness
in remarking their absence, but Dulcie’s good-morning kiss had quite
dissipated his gloom, and he listened with a goodtempered smile to their
chatter about the morning’s adventures.
‘Don’t forget to come to the study, Desmond,’ he said, as he rose and
passed out on to the terrace with his newspaper.
‘All right, sir,’ said Desmond. Conseltine also withdrew, leaving the
three young people together, Richard sitting apart, and scowling angrily
at Dulcie and her companion, who ignored his presence completely.
‘Dulcie,’ he said suddenly, ‘won’t you come into the drawing-room and
teach me that song? You promised, you know.’
‘Not now,’ said the girl, ‘I’m busy. I’ve got to go and look out my
fishing-tackle.’
‘Are you going fishing?’ asked Richard. ‘Yes,’ said Desmond; ‘she’s
going with me.’
‘I wasn’t addressing you,’ said Richard.
‘Thank you for the honour you do me in not addressing me!’ said Desmond
quietly.
There was something in Richard’s manner which the lad could not define,
something more than usually insolent and offensive.
‘I really think, Dulcie,’ said Richard, ‘that you might give us a little
of your company now and then, instead of running all over the county
like a madcap with all the tatterdemalions in the village. I wish we
were back in Dublin, with civilized people about us.’
‘Really, Mr. Conseltine,’ said Dulcie quietly, but with a manner which
marked her sense of the side-sneer at Desmond, ‘I can choose my society
without your assistance.’
The lowering look which always rested on Richard’s heavy features
deepened.
‘No, you can’t,’ he said roughly; ‘or, at all events, you don’t. You’re
getting yourself talked about all over the county, wandering about like
a girl off the hillside with any vagabond who----’
‘I beg your pardon,’ interrupted Desmond, with great smoothness of
manner, but with a dangerous glitter in his eyes, ‘but civility costs
nothing, Mr. Richard. Were you alluding to me at all?’
‘Well,’ said Richard, trying hard to revert to his usual manner of heavy
insolence, but speaking angrily, ‘and what if I was?’
‘Why----’ returned Desmond, rising.
‘Don’t be afraid, Lady Dulcie, I’m not going to quarrel. If I’ve said or
done anything to give offence to this kind, civil-spoken, amiable young
gentleman, I’m willing and anxious to apologize. What’s my offence,
sir?’
‘You hang too much about the Castle,’ said Richard. ‘I know his lordship
encourages you, but you ought to know better than to presume on his
good-nature.’
‘Don’t you think,’ said Desmond quietly, ‘that you might leave his
lordship to say that?’
‘You’re not fit company for my cousin,’ cried Richard hotly.
Dulcie rose with an exclamation of anger, but Desmond laid his hand upon
her arm, and she remained silent.
‘And don’t you think,’ continued Desmond again, ‘that you might leave
that for your cousin to say? She hasn’t said it yet.’ ‘Said it!’ cried
Dulcie, in a white heat of anger; ‘why should I say it? A gentleman is
fit company for anybody.’
‘A gentleman!’ sneered Richard. ‘A gentleman! Yes, but you should
be able to tell the difference between the real article and the
counterfeit.’
‘Oh!’ said Desmond, quietly still, but with more keenly glittering eyes
and a pulsating voice. ‘And I suppose I’m the counterfeit? Is that what
you mean?’
‘That is just what I mean,’ returned Richard.
‘Then,’ said Desmond, ‘if Lady Dulcie will do us the honour to leave us
to ourselves, or if you’ll kindly step out on the lawn, the counterfeit
will give the real article a taste of his quality.’
‘Desmond!’ cried Dulcie.
‘All right, Lady Dulcie,’ said Desmond, soothing her with his hand, and
keeping his eye on Richard’s face.
The girl let the endearing tone and action pass unregarded. They stung
Richard to fury.
‘You beggar!’ he cried.
Desmond made a step towards him; Dulcie clung to him, beseeching him to
be quiet.
‘Don’t be alarmed, now,’ said Desmond, with his Irish blood dancing
in his veins, and his heart all aglow with love of battle. ‘We’re only
going to have a small civil kind of a fight, just to see how _real_ he
is!’
Peebles, who had entered the room unobserved, overheard these last
words, and came between the combatants, ‘Master Desmond,’ he said, ‘I’m
surprised at ye. Ye’ll no’ disgrace his lordship’s house by brawling in
it, as if ye were in a tap-room or a hillside shebeen?’
‘Stand out of the way, if you please, Mr. Peebles,’ said Desmond.
‘That I’ll no’ do,’ returned the old Scot. ‘Ye’ll just be a sensible
lad, as I’ve always thought ye, and tell me what’s the trouble. You’re
the calmest, Master Richard--what’s a’ the steer aboot?’
‘I warned that ruffian,’ said Richard, ‘to avoid my company. He
retaliated, as you see, and----’
‘You insulted him cruelly!’ cried Dulcie, with a heaving breast, and a
glitter of tears in her soft eyes. ‘Never mind him, Desmond--come away!’
‘Insult _him!_’ cried Richard. Peebles’ presence, and the near
neighbourhood of his lordship, gave him some sense of security, and
Dulcie’s obvious sympathy with the object of his antagonism enraged him
beyond all control. ‘Insult _him!_ By the powers! Ask him who and what
he is, and then you’ll know what right he has to be in your company, or
in the company of any young lady.’
The anger half faded from Desmond’s face, and gave way to something of a
look of astonishment.
‘Who and what I am?’ he repeated. ‘Sure, I’m Desmond Macartney.’
Richard repeated the name, and gave a scornful laugh.
‘And who has anything to say against me? I’m as good a gentleman as
yourself.’
‘That’s a lie,’ said Richard. ‘You’re a pauper, dependent on my uncle’s
charity for bread.’
Peebles let out a slow growl of remonstrance and warning, through
which Dulcie’s voice sounded like the clear note of a flute through the
scraping of a violoncello.
‘For shame!’ she cried, her cheeks burning with a hot flush of generous
indignation.
‘Shame!’ cried Richard. ‘If there’s any shame, it’s there!’ He pointed
his finger straight at Desmond.
‘Hold your fool’s tongue!’ said Peebles gruffly.
‘I will speak!’ shouted Richard. ‘Everybody knows--he knows--that his
mother was a common peasant woman, and that he is my uncle’s bastard!’
Desmond sprang past Peebles with a cry, and struck his traducer in the
face.
‘Keep him off!’ cried Richard, white and reeling from the blow. ‘Curse
you, Peebles, why don’t you keep him off?’
‘Ye fool!’ said Peebles, with angry contempt. ‘Ye pitiful, cowardly
fool, ’twad serve ye right if he beat the life oot of your carcase!’
Desmond, blind with fury, had seized Richard by the throat.
‘Down on your knees!’ he cried.
‘Take back those words!’
Just then Kilpatrick’s gray face and trembling figure appeared at the
room door--none but Peebles saw him.
‘Take them back!’ cried Desmond, raising his fist to strike again.
‘Let me go!’ cried Richard desperately.
Desmond’s hand slackened on his collar.
‘Speak!’ he cried. ‘Tell me, or I’ll strangle you! Is it the truth ye’ve
told me? Is Lord Kilpatrick my father?’
‘Yes,’ cried Richard, ‘and you know it!’
Desmond released him, and fell back with a moan. Cur and coward as
he knew the man to be, his words carried conviction. As by a
lightning-flash, he read the meaning of a thousand details of his past
life, which, thus illuminated, went to prove the truth.
‘My mother!’ he said. ‘My mother! No, no! Don’t say it--don’t say it!
Don’t say it, for the love of God! I can’t bear it!’ He broke into a
terrible sob.
‘Ye’re just the champion fool o’ my experience,’ said Peebles, as
he passed Richard on his way to the door, to the frame of which Lord
Kilpatrick was clinging, looking on the scene with haggard eyes.
‘You cad!’ said Dulcie, flinging the word at Richard like a missile.
‘Peebles! Desmond! What’s all this?’ cried his lordship.
‘The secret’s out, my lord,’ said Peebles. ‘The poor lad knows he’s your
son.’
Kilpatrick looked with a ghastly face towards Desmond, who glared back
at him like one turned to stone.
‘Uncle,’ cried Dulcie, ‘speak to him. Tell him it is not true.’
‘It _is_ true,’ said Kilpatrick hoarsely.
Desmond, my boy, my son, speak to me!’
‘_You!’_ said Desmond. ‘You--you are my father?’
Lord Kilpatrick tottered into the room and fell into a chair.
‘And my _mother_,’ said Desmond--‘my mother? What of _her?_’
‘She died, long years ago,’ said his lordship.
‘Who was she? Speak!’ cried Desmond--‘speak! I must know!’
‘She was named Moya Macartney,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘She was--she----’
‘She was not your _wife?_’ said the boy. ‘Then I am--I am what he called
me!’
‘Convention!’ cried Kilpatrick--‘mere convention! I acknowledge you as
my son. Who will dare to point at you? Take witness, all of you!’ he
cried, rising from his seat, ‘Desmond Macartney is my son. Those who
will receive him and treat him as such are welcome here. Those who will
not, let them go their ways.’
‘Uncle!’ cried Dulcie, ‘God bless you! Desmond----’
‘Hush, Lady Dulcie!’ cried Desmond. ‘Don’t speak to me now, or my heart
will break. I was too happy to-day,’ he said brokenly; ‘I might have
known that trouble was to come.’
Kilpatrick made a movement towards him.
‘Keep back!’ said Desmond. ‘Don’t come near me! I’m _her_ son, not
yours. I’ll never eat your bread, or call you father.’
So saying, he pushed his way past Peebles, who sought in vain to
restrain him, and with one wild glance at the assembled group, rushed
from the room and ran like a death-struck deer from Kilpatrick Castle.