Peebles, though weary with his unwonted vigil in the early morning and
the anxiety of the day, made good speed to Doolan’s farm, urged as he
was by those most powerful of stimulants, love and fear. It was a long
and rough road, but a younger and stronger man than the old Scot might
have been satisfied with the speed at which he covered it. He arrived
panting at the humble cabin, where the farmer and his family, with
Desmond among them, were just sitting down to the plain but plentiful
evening meal of potatoes and buttermilk, supplemented by a rasher
of bacon in honour of the guest, whom Doolan felt a great pride in
entertaining, and who would have found a welcome equally warm at almost
any house in the district.
‘By my soul!’ said the hospitable farmer, as Peebles broke into the
room and fell exhausted into the nearest chair; ‘’tis me lord’s
butler--’tis Mr. Peebles! The top o’ the evening to ye, sor. Bridget,
I’m thinkin’ Mr. Peebles will be takin’ a dhrop o’ whisky. Saints above!
what’s wrong wi’ ye, sor?’
Peebles slowly panted his breath back, while the farmer and his
wife--the latter a ruddy, handsome peasant woman, who had been Desmond’s
nurse eighteen years before--stood solicitously over him.
‘Get the bottle, Bridget,’ said the farmer. ‘The poor gentleman’s clane
blown.
Peebles took a mouthful of the liquor, and felt the better for it.
‘What is it at all?’ asked Desmond.
‘Faith, ye look as if you’d seen a ghost. What is it, old friend?’
‘You must come with me, Desmond,’ said the old man. ‘I’ve news for
ye--news that will keep no longer.’
‘If ’tis good news,’ said Desmond, ‘sure ’tis welcome, and all the
more welcome for being unexpected.’
‘Good!’ cried Peebles--‘it’s the best! It’s better than I ever dared to
hope!’
‘Faith, then,’ returned the boy, ‘let’s have it!’
‘Not here, laddie, not here!’ said Peebles. ‘’Tis only in your private
ear that I can whisper it yet.’
‘We’ll lave ye alone,’ said the honest farmer. ‘Come, Bridget;
come, children.’
‘No, no!’ said Peebles. ‘I’ve no time to bide. Ye must come wi’ me,
Desmond. It’s not a’ good news I bring ye. There’s danger near one ye
love, laddie.’
‘Dulcie?’ cried Desmond.
‘No--Lady Dulcie’s safe, for a’ I ken, and I saw her not three hours
syne, the bonnie doo, blooming like the rose o’ Sharon. Come, lad, put
on your hat--I’m rested noo. We’ll gang together, and I’ll tell ye as we
gang.’
Desmond obeyed, in a great state of bewilderment, and Peebles, when
they were some hundred yards away from the farm, began his story by a
question:
‘Ye’ll remember the poor woman ye met last night in the kirkyard?’
‘Yes,’ answered Desmond.
‘Man,’ said Peebles, ‘I scarce know how to tell ye, or if ye’ll believe
me when I’ve tellt ye. Maybe ye’ll think I’m daft or dreaming. You’ve
just got to prepare yourself for the greatest shock ye ever had in your
life. It well-nigh dinged the soul oot o’ me wi’ surprise when I heard
it, and it will hit ye sairer still, I’m thinking.’
The old man’s voice was so tremulous with emotion that Desmond stopped
short, and peered into his face questioningly in the pale moonlight
which was struggling with the thick dust of the summer night.
‘For God’s sake, Peebles,’ he said, ‘what is it?’
‘It’s just this,’ returned the Scot. ‘That poor woman was Moya
Macartney--your own mother!’
For some seconds Peebles’ speech carried no emotion to Desmond’s mind.
‘My mother!’ he repeated, in a voice whose only expression was one of
pure bewilderment. ‘My mother?--Moya Macartney?’
‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘She that was dead is alive. ’Tis a long story,
and I’ve neither time nor breath to tell you all. She spread the
report of her own death eighteen years ago, and went across the seas to
America. All these long, weary years, she’s denied her heart the only
pleasure it could ever know--the pleasure of seeing her son’s face and
hearing his voice. At last she could bear it no longer--she came. It
was she you talked wi’ last night in the kirkyard, she who kissed your
forehead and gied you her blessing.’
Desmond clutched at his throat with a choking sob.
‘For God’s sake, laddie,’ cried the old man, ‘don’t break down noo!
There’s work to be done. You don’t know all yet, nor the half o’t.’
‘My mother!’ cried Desmond. ‘My mother!’ He took off his soft felt
hat, crushing it in his hand, and pulled his collar open, stifling with
surprise and emotion. Peebles, seeing it vain to continue his story for
the moment, paused, waiting till the first shock of his communication
should have passed away. ‘My mother!’ Desmond repeated again, after an
interval. He spoke mechanically, with an utter lack of emotion in voice
and manner. ‘My mother! Well?’
‘The laddie’s stunned wi’ the intelligence,’ said Peebles to himself,
‘and small wonder. Can you understand what I’m saying, Desmond?’ he
asked, taking the lad’s arm. ‘We must gang on, lad. There’ll maybe be
serious work for us this night. D’ye understand me?’
‘Yes,’ said Desmond slowly, his mind still feeling numbed and dim. ‘I
can hear what you say, Mr. Peebles, but it--it all seems so strange. Is
it dreaming that I am?’ ‘’tis no dream,’ answered Peebles. ‘It’s as
real as the soil beneath your feet, and as true as God’s above ye. Pull
yerself together, lad, pull yerself together!’
‘Well,’ said Desmond, resuming his way in obedience to the impetus of
Peebles’ hand, ‘go on--I’ll try to understand.’
‘She came back,’ continued Peebles--speaking slowly, that the words
might better penetrate the stunned intelligence of his companion--‘she
came back a’ that weary way just to see the face and hear the voice o’
the bairn she’d suffered for eighteen years ago. But, laddie, she’s had
strange news! You don’t ken all the sorrowfu’ story. I tauld you, when
that young cub, your cousin, taunted you wi’ the accident o’ your birth,
never to think shame o’ your mother. I’ve had no chance since to tell
you more; I must tell it noo. Your mother was entrapped by a sham
marriage--or, at least, the marriage was believed to be a sham. It was
Blake of Blake’s Hall who officiated as priest. Somehow, Moya surmised
that Blake might really have been a priest, and asked me to gang till
him and speer if it was so. I went this afternoon and saw him, and he
confessed that he had been in holy orders, and that, though the
Bishop had ta’en his cure o’ souls from him, he had never been legally
unfrocked. D’ye ken what _that_ means, laddie?’
‘My brain’s reeling,’ said Desmond; ‘I understand nothing.’
‘It means,’ cried the old man, his voice breaking with glad emotion--‘it
means that you’re Desmond Conseltine, my master’s legitimate son and
heir, the next Lord Kilpatrick! Oh, laddie, it’s brave news--it’s brave
news--and my heart was just bursting to tell it!’
Desmond spoke no word, and his silence after the communication of the
tidings a little frightened his old friend, who peered into his face as
they walked on quietly side by side.
‘Hae ye nothing to say, Desmond?’ he asked.
‘What can I say?’ asked Desmond. ‘Where is my mother?’ he asked
suddenly. ‘Is it to her that ye’re taking me?’
‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘We’re gaun to Larry’s mill, and there we’ll find
her. Desmond, my man, she mustn’t stay there. There’s danger abroad.’
They were in the middle of the wide, waste country, but the old man
could not repress the searching look he cast around him.
‘She has ill-wishers, blackguards, who’ll stick at nothing to gain their
cruel ends. Blake told me this afternoon of a thing I find it hard to
credit. Your uncle, Richard Conseltine, and his son, and that scoundrel
Feagus, _know_ that Moya’s alive, and where she’s living. Feagus saw
her wi’ me in the kirkyard, and listened to our talk. Blake thinks they
might molest her while she’s there asleep! We’ll just hope it’s nothing
but one of his drunken havers, but I’ve kent Richard Conseltine for
well-nigh thirty years, and, man, he’s a mean creature. There’s not much
he’d stick at, I’m thinking, for the price is the title and estates of
Kilpatrick. Anyway, ’tis just sober prudence to warn Moya and get her
awa’ oot o’ danger. Her proper place is the Castle, but if she’ll no
consent to gang there, we’ll just find her another shelter for awhile.’
While Peebles and Desmond were earnestly discussing the strange news of
her resurrection and reappearance, Moya Macartney was seated alone in
the desolate tenement known to the country people as ‘Larry’s Mill.’
It was a dreary, tumble-down place, ill-fitted for human habitation,
and the ‘Larry’ by whom it had been owned had long gone the way of all
flesh. The house itself was built on wooden pillars, and consisted of
an upper and a lower chamber; the former utterly abandoned, save in the
spring of the year, when it was temporarily occupied by an old shepherd;
the latter now and again used as a sort of byre, or shelter-place for
cattle. A rough ladder, several rungs or which had fallen away, led from
the under to the upper room.
The mill-wheel itself, choked with filth and weeds, stood still and
broken, the waters of the stream which had once turned it forcing their
way through its torn fissures and gaps, and forming a slimy pool. On
the night of which we write there had been heavy rains, and the stream,
swollen and black, was pouring through the moveless wheel with the force
and the roar of a torrent.
A truckle-bed with a coarse straw mattress, and a few coarse utensils,
were the only furniture of the upper room. The floor was strewn with
straw. A rude window looked down on the wheel and on the dismal pool
beneath, and as the water roared, and the wind blew, the whole building
shook as if about to be swept away.
The sound of someone stirring below startled the woman as she stood at
the window gazing silently out into the night.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried, turning and looking down the open trap-door
which opened on the ladder.
‘Sure it’s only me, ma’am,’ said a voice--‘Larry Monaghan! I’ve a
message to ye from my mother, at the new mill beyant.’
As the man spoke, his head protruded through the trap-door.
‘I see ye’ve a light convanient,’ he said, pointing to a tallow candle
which stood above the disused fireplace.
‘Yes, sure,’ answered Moya.
‘Kape it burning, to drive away the rats, but mind the sparks--the ould
timber’s like touchwood. But sure it’s not that I came to say. My mother
bids ye come over with me to the new mill, and shelter there, for sure
this is no place for a decent woman.’
‘It’s only for one more night,’ replied Moya, ‘and then I’ll be laving
for my own home in the south. Though I thank your kind mother all the
same.’
‘Saints above!’ murmured Larry. ‘It’s not a wink of shleep I could get
here! They’re sayin’ the place is haunted by the fairies.’
‘Sure they won’t harm a poor soul like me!’ cried Moya, with a musical
laugh.
‘Thin ye won’t come? It’s only a short stretch down the hillside.’
‘I’ll stay where I am, thank you,’ was the reply. ‘I’m a sound sleeper,
and even when I’m waking, I’ve my thoughts for company. It will be
getting late?’
‘Past ten o’clock,’ said Larry, ‘and the rain’s falling heavily. I’m
concerned to leave ye here, in a place so lonesome!’
‘The Lord will watch over me!’ answered Moya, crossing herself.
‘Amin!’ said the man. ‘Then I’ll say good-night!’
‘Good-night!’
With a dubious shake of the head, Larry disappeared, and immediately
afterwards she heard the sound of his retreating footsteps below. He was
whistling as he went, doubtless to keep up his courage, for, like most
of his class, he was superstitious. Presently all was silent, save
for the dismal murmur of wind and water. Left alone, Moya sat on the
bedside, looking at vacancy and thinking. Presently, with a deep sigh,
she rose, placed the lighted candle for safety in a tin bowl on the
floor close to the bedside, and then, kneeling down, covered her face
with her hands and prayed.
For a long time she remained thus, praying silently. The wind howled,
and the water roared, but she did not stir. When at last she rose, her
fair face looked calm and peaceful, as if the hand of an angel had been
placed upon her suffering brow. Then she threw herself on the bed, and
after a time fell asleep.
How long she slept she never knew; but she was wearied out, and her
sleep was sound. Suddenly, with a start of terror, she awakened. The
candle had gone out, and the place was in total darkness. As she lay
trembling and listening, she heard, above the moan of the elements,
the sound of something moving in the room below, and saw, through the
trapdoor, a gleam like the light from a lanthorn.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried.
There was no answer, but the light immediately disappeared.
Moya was not superstitious, and much sorrow had given her unusual
courage. She sat up in bed, listening, and heard again a sound from
below--this time like retreating footsteps.
‘Sure it was only my fancy,’ she thought, ‘when I seemed to see a light
yonder. ’Twill only be some of the poor mountain cattle sheltering
from the storm.’
But at that moment a red gleam came from the room below, and before she
could spring from her bed and look down the gleam had become a flame,
lighting up the place like dawn. Conscious now of a real and awful
peril, she endeavoured to descend the ladder, but a column of mingled
smoke and flame drove her back, suffocating.
The room below was a sheet of fire, and piled against the walls was a
heap of dry hay and straw, burning brightly, with flames that leapt
up and caught the rotten timber. With a scream she again attempted to
descend, but was instantly driven back. Then, scarcely knowing what she
did, she closed the trap-door, and rushing to the window, threw it open.
She realized the truth now. The sounds she had heard, the light she
had seen, had been made by human beings, and whether by design or by
accident, the mill had been set on fire. Poor soul, she did not yet
understand that there were men living in the world who would do even a
deed like that to compass a fellow-creature’s death.
As she stood terror-stricken, a tongue of fire crept through the floor
and caught the loose straw with which it was strewn. At this fresh
horror she uttered a piercing shriek, for escape seemed impossible.
As her voice rose on the night, it was answered by another from the
darkness.
‘Mother! mother!’
Her heart stood still. Was she dreaming? Whose voice could it be that
uttered that holy name? She leant out over the mill-wheel, and saw
beyond her in the darkness the glimmer of a lanthorn.
‘Help! help!’ she cried; and as she cried the whole place seemed rocking
beneath, and thick clouds of smoke and tongues of fire came up through
the heating floor. Then again she heard the voice, crying and imploring.
‘Mother! mother!’
‘Who’s that?’ she cried.
‘Desmond--your son Desmond!’
Desmond! Her son! Even in her dire and awful peril she felt a thrill of
delicious joy.
‘Save me, Desmond, save me!’ she cried.
‘The water-wheel!’ answered Desmond. Climb out from the window, stand on
the wheel, and lape for your life into the pool below!’
Moya hesitated, and again, as the flame and smoke thickened behind her,
uttered a despairing scream.
‘’Tis your only chance for life,’ called the voice. ‘Jump, mother
darling! Sure I’ll be near to help ye! Jump, for the love of God!’
It was that or being burned alive. The whole mill was now one sheet of
flame, and the fire scorched her as she stood, while the wooden floor
crackled and split beneath her feet. Crossing herself, and consigning
her soul to God, she scrambled out on the wheel and clung there on hands
and knees, exposed to the full force of wind and rain.
‘Jump, mother!’ cried Desmond once more. She fluttered forward with a
cry, and slipped rather than fell with a heavy splash into the boiling
waters of the pool. As she did so her senses left her; she seemed to
be sucked down, down into some awful abyss; then she was conscious of
nothing more.
When her eyes opened, she was lying on the bank of the stream, with the
light from a lanthorn flashing into her face.
‘Mother! mother!’ cried the voice she had heard before. ‘It’s
Desmond--your son Desmond!’
His arms were round her neck, her head was on his bosom. Peebles,
holding the lanthorn, bent over them, tears streaming down his wrinkled
face.
‘Desmond--my boy!’ she murmured.
‘Mother, my mother!’ he answered, sobbing over her.
He had watched her drop into the mill-pool, and then had plunged in to
her rescue, catching her as she was swept down towards the fall below
the mill, and swimming with her to the bank whereon she now lay.