It was not till Blake was half-way on the road to Maguire’s cottage
that the personal significance to himself of the errand with which
Peebles had entrusted him dawned upon him. His first impulse was to
tell the driver to return to the Castle, and to request Peebles to find
another messenger.
‘By the Saints, but ’tis a fine business I’m in for--a two-mile ride
with Moya Macartney and Desmond--and ’tis a comfortable quarter of an
hour I’ll be after having.’
His habitual recklessness prevailed, however, aided by the thought that,
as the bearer of the message of peace, he might have a better chance of
pardon for past peccadilloes. He arrived at Maguire’s cottage, which had
a lonely and deserted aspect, in the bright mid-day sunshine. No curl
of smoke from the chimney announced the presence of an occupant, and the
door was fast shut. It opened at his knock, and disclosed Moya.
‘God save all here!’ said Blake, with his customary swagger rather
broadened.
‘Amen to that, Patrick Blake,’ said Moya calmly, ‘for some of us need
His mercy. What is it ye want here?’
‘Just yourself,’ said Blake. ‘I’m from the Castle with a message from
Mr. Peebles. Ye’re asked for there.’
Moya turned a shade paler.
‘Is he there--Desmond?’
‘I’m going on to Doolan’s farm to take him,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve the
carriage waitin’ here.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then added, with
more show of feeling than was common with him: ‘I’m a quare sort o’
messenger to send on this errand, and God knows ye’re little likely to
relish my society. It’s no sort o’ use in the world to say I’m sorry, or
to offer apologies for what’s past, but I hope it’s good news I’m
bringin’ ye. In fact, I _know_ it’s good news.’ He took off his hat with
a gesture that was almost dignified. ‘Will ye do me the honour to
accompany me, Lady Kilpatrick?’
Moya drew her shawl about her face and walked to the carriage, the door
of which Blake held open for her. He mounted beside the driver, and
another ten minutes saw them at the farm. Desmond was in the yard,
seated on a bench and engaged in splicing a fishing-rod. At the sound
of the approaching wheels he checked the pensive whistle with which
he accompanied his work; and at the sight of Blake on the box of the
carriage, he dropped the rod to the ground and strode forward at
a quickened pace and with heightened colour. Blake descended and
confronted him.
‘Tell me this, Mr. Blake,’ said the boy; ‘I’m in a bit of a quandary.
There is a man I know who’s a villain, but he’s old enough to be my
father, and I hear that he’s a clergyman, so I can neither call him out
nor lay a stick across his back. What would ye do in my place?’
‘Faith,’ answered Blake, ‘’tis a troublesome question. ’Twill take
thinking over. In the mean time, I’ve news for ye. Ye’re wanted at the
Castle.’
‘Am I?’ said Desmond. ‘And who wants me?’
‘Mr. Peebles.’
‘Then tell him,’ said Desmond, ‘that when I enter my father’s doors
again ’twill be either to find my mother there, or with her on my
arm.’
‘Sure,’ said Blake, ‘she’s in the carriage at this minute, and going to
the Castle with ye. Your troubles are over, Desmond--and hers.’
‘_You_ have a right to congratulate me on that, haven’t ye?’ asked the
boy with scornful anger.
‘Faith! and if _I_ haven’t, who has?’ replied Blake unabashed. ‘And look
here, Desmond Conseltine; in regard to the matter ye mentioned just now,
sure there’ll be no difficulty whatever. ’Tis not myself that’ll
take refuge behind a black coat and a white choker. Twenty paces or a
six-foot ring will do for me, and so, my service to ye. ’Twould ease
your heart and end the bad blood between us, maybe. But there’s things
more important than divarsions o’ that sort on hand.’
Moya’s white face appeared at the carriage window, and Desmond, with a
final angry look at Blake, joined her. Blake remounted the box and gave
the word for home. The coachman, who had received his instructions from
Peebles, made a detour in order to approach the Castle from the back.
Moya trembled like a leaf as they approached the house, and clung tight
to Desmond’s hand.
They found Peebles standing bareheaded at the back door, waiting to
receive them.
‘Moya,’ he said--‘I beg your pardon, Lady Kilpatrick, but the old name
comes easiest--his lordship has asked for Desmond. He kens that he is
his lawful son, and the way he took the news was just joyful to see. He
repents his past sin, he’ll welcome the boy back to his hearth and home.
But he doesna ken--I hadna the courage to tell him--that you are living.
I thought ’twould come best from Desmond. Desmond, lad, be gentle wi’
him! We a’ hae much to forgive each other, and--he’s your father, man,
when a’ is said and done. Mak’ your peace wi’ him, and then break it to
him as gently as ye can.
He’s in the library. I’ll get your mother upstairs cannily into the
anteroom, to be at hand. Eh?’ he cried, with a quiver in his voice and a
flash of moisture in his eyes which did more than all his entreaties to
soften Desmond. ‘Hech, laddie,’ but this is a grand day! I can lay down
my old bones in thankfulness, praising God for his mercies. It’s a grand
day this, and I never thought to live to see the like!’
The old man fairly broke down. Desmond took his hand and pressed it,
with the tears in his own eyes, and it was in a much kindlier mood
than that in which he had entered the house that he mounted the stairs
leading to the library. He stood for a minute outside the door. His
breath was heavy, and the beating of his heart filled his ears like the
pulse of a muffled drum. When he knocked, Kilpatrick’s voice answered
from within, bidding him enter.
The old man was standing near the window, with the light streaming on
his face, which was very worn and haggard. Desmond thought even that his
hair had whitened a little since he last saw him, though so short a time
had elapsed. Kilpatrick advanced a pace or two with outstretched hands,
and then paused with bent head. A strange mingling of many nameless
and some nameable emotions welled up in Desmond’s heart--memories of
a thousand kindnesses and generosities, pity for the proud man
humbled--and before he knew it his arms were round the old man’s neck,
and they were mingling their tears together. Kilpatrick was terribly
agitated.
‘My son, my son!’ was all he could say for a time. He repeated the words
again and again, each time more passionately, as if at this moment their
wonderful significance had become dear to him for the first time. ‘You
forgive me, Desmond?’
The boy took the gray head between his hands, and kissed his father on
the forehead, wetting his face with his tears.
‘It is more than I deserve,’ said the old man. ‘I was a scoundrel, a
villain! I broke your mother’s heart, Desmond, the sweetest, purest
heart that ever beat. Ye can’t forgive me for that! Nothing can ever
take that load from my heart, nothing, till I die and she asks God to
pardon me.’
‘Father!’ said Desmond. ‘I have strange news for you. Are you well and
strong enough to bear it?
‘Nothing can hurt me now,’ replied Kilpatrick.
‘You don’t know what it is,’ replied Desmond. ‘I’m afraid ’twill be a
dreadful shock to you at first, but a happy one after, I hope.’
‘Well,’ said the father, with a faint touch of his old quickness of
temper, ‘what is it? Speak out, my boy, and tell me. Some scrape you’ve
got into, eh? Well, that’s forgiven before you tell me.’
‘You regret the past?’ asked Desmond. ‘You would make amends for it to
the utmost extent in your power?’
‘I _will_ make amends for it, Desmond. There is nothing you can ask me
I will not do, no burden that you can lay upon me that I will not gladly
bear.’
‘I hope,’ said Desmond, after a short pause, ‘that you won’t think what
I’m going to tell ye is a burden. Faith, ’tis hard to know where to
begin! Supposing--mind, I only say supposing--supposing my mother were
not dead at all, supposing she were alive, and came back here, would
you make the same amends to her as you say you’ll make to me?’ ‘You--you
torture me!’ cried Kilpatrick. ‘Why rake up these painful recollections?
Why ask questions of this sort, when they can do no good? Every day of
my life, for eighteen years past, I have repented the wrong I did. God
knows, if it were possible, I would repair it.’
‘Ye mean that?’ cried Desmond.
‘God knows I do!’ said Kilpatrick, ‘but of what avail is it to speak of
such things now?’
‘Of more avail than you may think, father. Strange things have happened
this last day or two.’
Kilpatrick searched his son’s face with distending eyes.
‘Desmond! For God’s sake, tell me what you mean!’
‘I mean,’ said Desmond, taking his father’s hand, ‘that God has been
very good to us both, father. If I tell it to you too suddenly, forgive
me--I don’t know how to break it properly. My mother is alive!’
Kilpatrick staggered as if the words had shot him.
‘Alive!’ he gasped. ‘Moya Macartney alive!’
‘Yes, sure,’ said Desmond, ‘and in a little while she’ll be here, in
Ireland.’
Kilpatrick sank into a seat, and sat trembling like a man ague-struck.
‘In fact,’ said Desmond, ‘she is in Ireland already, and on her way
here.’
The old man sprang to his feet.
‘She is here--she is in the house!’
Desmond walked to the ante-room door, and made a sign. Moya advanced
into the library, and let slip the shawl from her face.
‘God of Heaven!’ cried Kilpatrick, falling to his knees. ‘Moya!’
She stood still, looking down on him, the broad light falling on her
wrinkled face and whitening hair. Kilpatrick bent his head beneath
her gaze, an awful sob broke from his throat. Desmond closed the door,
leaving them together: the meeting was too sacred to be witnessed even
by him.
*****
A long time had gone by, and the shadow of the Castle had blotted out
the shaft of sunshine which had spread its glory of golden green on the
lawn when the carriage had reached the Castle. Desmond still sat alone
as a light step crossed the floor, and a soft arm was slipped round his
neck. He looked up and saw Dulcie.
‘You needn’t say anything, Desmond,’ she said. ‘Peebles has told me. I
am so happy, dear, for your sake.’
He drew her to his side.
‘You loved me, Dulcie, when I was the poor Squireen: will you love me
the less now that I’m to be the next Lord Kilpatrick?’
‘Not less,’ answered Dulcie, ‘nor more. Sure,’ she added, with the most
musical of brogues, ‘’twould be impossible!’
THE END.