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 that _I_ ken 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 bully
_that_ into 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 if _I_ told 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.’